Moonsong
by Wolf-Kin
Summary: A tale from Solstheim. A former adventurer leads a double life and likes it that way. But what happens when she’s called upon once more? Will she sacrifice the life she loves—and perhaps more—for duty and honor? [Complete!]
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Nothing is mine, except for the original characters and concepts. Everything else belongs to Bethesda Softworks Inc. (the creators of Morrowind). I am not making any money off of this. Please don't sue. 

Moonsong 

_A tale from Solstheim. A former adventurer leads a double life and likes it that way. But what happens when she's called upon once more? Will she sacrifice the life she loves—and perhaps more—for duty and honor?_

"HELP! Someone! My son is missing! Anyone, please!"

I tried not to stiffen as I made my way through the streets of Raven Rock, the mining colony in Solstheim. The guar-leather pack's straps bit into my shoulders as I continued to walk, pretending to be mute to the cries of the distressed mother. _What are people doing, bringing young children to this thrice-forsaken island?_ I asked myself as I continued down the main street, stopping before the door of the Raven Rock Bar to listen behind me. My ears were better than many; I heard murmured words as some of the volunteer colony guards approached the wailing Breton woman. She calmed down, and I nodded to myself, _Good. Someone'll help her find her son or whatever._ I felt a tinge of regret as I pushed open the door to the bar; I wanted to help. It was so rare that I did anything like what I used to do in the old days when I used to be an adventurer, a sword for hire. But now, with things as they were...I kept to myself. I had to.

I offered a smile to the bartender, Alcedonia Amnis, a tough Imperial woman...but then again, on this island, everyone had to be tough. "Afternoon Alcedonia," I said, approaching her.

She nodded to me, "Greetings Taima. What can I do for you?"

"I need about five kwama eggs and a few pounds of guar meat, enough to last me through the rest of the week. Oh, and throw in a bottle of flin."

She nodded once more, reaching underneath the counter to pull up the foods I requested, asking idly as she did, "Expecting company?"

"Yeah," I nodded, lying. She didn't notice, or perhaps didn't care, and turned her back to count out the kwama eggs. I smiled as I leaned against the bar, reminded of why I always got my supplies from her; she asked no questions, and accepted any answer that I gave her as if it were the truth. Some were skeptical when I told them that I preferred to live alone, even on this island, with no one to bother me. Some gave me an odd look when I confessed to being afraid of werewolves, so I always returned home before nine at night, when they lost their human forms. Afraid...ha, that _was_ a laugh.

How could I be afraid of what I was?

I remember how I contacted Sanies Lupinus: the disease of werewolves. It was a random encounter; could have happened to anyone. But it happened to me. I new to this island, and was out adventure-seeking, as usual, searching through burrows and burial tombs. I had just come out of a burrow, tired but triumphant, when the werewolf attacked me. It was so sudden that I was caught off guard for a moment, and it managed to bite me several times before I could plunge my sword into its chest.

I had used all my potions and scrolls earlier that day, in the burrow. I had no way to cure myself or get to a Temple or an Imperial Cult for healing. Later, I would remember that I had learned the spells Divine Intervention and Almsivi Intervention, but later would be too late. I suppose the pain of the bites made me forget that I knew them, but what is done is done. My only hope was no hope at all; run all the way back to Fort Frostmoth. Impossible. But I tried. And I failed.

I was still out in the wilds when the first change overtook me. For that, I am glad; I harmed no one, that first night. I ran far and fast, trying to escape, and I suffered greatly in the morning, but I harmed no one. Later I would learn: kill quickly, without undue pain to the victim, but kill, and the bloodlust that all werewolves know will be gone for the night, and my strength will return. So I scouted the island and learned the locations of all the camps of smugglers, crazed berserkers, and all the others that attack on sight. At night, when I take on my wolf form, I kill _them,_ the ones whom Imperial justice would have to kill anyways. Their disappearance is never noted or remarked on. And then I run wild and free and strong, a black wolf of the north.

So I returned to the mining colony, and bought a house several miles away, where no one would see me change under the stars' light. Far enough away that if they heard me sing the song of the moon, they would think me to be just another wolf. Too far away to hurt anyone by accident, if someone were to stumble across me before I had sated the need to kill. And so I planned to live out my days, in solitude.

Behind me, the door leading out opened, and I turned my head just in time to see a troop of guards march in, the Breton woman who had been wailing in their midst. A big Nord I vaguely recognized as Roc, head of the Guard, leapt up onto a table and called out over the noise of the bar, "Everyone!" he considered a moment, then amended, "Everyone who's not drunk." A laugh rolled out from the patrons even as they began to gather around Roc. "Mistress Veta's son Hethan is missing. We fear he may be out in the wilds. We need everyone who can wield a sword or bow or magicka with any degree of skill to help with the search. We need all the help we can get; it's already six at night. We have three hours until the werewolves—not to mention all the other nasty things on this island—really become active."

Roc wasted no time or words in telling what happened and what he needed. Not surprisingly, most of the people who were able volunteered to help with the search, and I turned back to Alcedonia, confident that the boy would be found before anything happened to him, though I could not dismiss the uneasy feeling I had in my gut. Instinct screamed at me, telling me what, I didn't know, but something important. I shoved it to the side, trying to call it just another werewolf-thing, like the strength and the speed and the keener senses that I had gained. I thanked Alcedonia, paying out the amount of drakes required without even trying to barter; I just wasn't in the mood.

"Taima, didn't you used to be quite a hand with a sword...?" I jerked at the sound of Roc's voice, staring at him without understanding. When there was no answer to his question, he urged me in a soft tone, so that no one could overhear, "Taima, we need all the experienced swordsmen and -women and trackers we can get. If only half of what I heard about you is true, then you used to be quite an adventurer...one of the best. They say no one could match you with a sword..."

I felt heat rise to my face, and I turned my head down. How could I help them? Either I'd have to slip away for the night, or I'd have to reveal what I was to them...and face eternal persecution for it. I mumbled something, I'm not sure what, along the lines of a refusal.

"Taima...please? We need you."

I lifted my gaze and forced myself to speak clearly; if I didn't give a good reason, he would guilt me into helping, and then I'd be in trouble, "No, you don't. When all's said and done I'm too old now; these young ones are better with a sword than I am. Besides, you know where I live. I've got to get home before dark. I'll look for him along the trail that I take, but I can't do anything more. I'm sorry, Roc, but I can't."

His eyes were sympathetic and pitying as he nodded, and turned back to start organizing the volunteers into search parties. Something within me rankled at the idea of being pitied, and I almost marched up to Roc to tell him that I'd changed my mind...but then I remembered my senses, and turned on my back, exiting the bar. _It's ironic_, I mused as I continued out of Raven Rock, taking a small guar-trail deep into the wilds, _That I have become so cold, so rational during the day, so that at night, I can live by emotions. Ha. A bitter joke._

A little over two hours later, I was finishing up my nightly preparations in my home in the wilds, making sure all the doors and windows of my little cabin were locked, that the food was stored in my small cellar below, a chest of weapons and armor placed atop the trapdoor to deter any creature that might get in through creative means. I had discovered the hard way not to take any chances with this. Finally, after one last sweep through the rooms to make sure I had remembered everything, I left the cabin, locking the door behind me, and stepped out into the night.

My cabin was nestled between several hills too rocky to be climbed at night except by the best experts, overshadowed by mountains. A single guar-trail wound its way between two of the hills, the only entrance for most on two legs. Huge pines covered the slopes, forcing the trail to take several turns to avoid trees. I had encouraged the growth of local wild plants in this sheltered grove of mine, most bushes whose rustling would warn me of anyone or anything's approach, with a few trailing vines and fruit-bearing plants thrown in for good measure.

I moved through those same bushes and plants without disturbing a twig, long practice guiding my steps as I walked behind the cabin, to where a small stream flowed into a deep pool from the tallest mountain behind my cabin. Long ago—at least, what _felt_ like long ago to me—I had cleared bushes from the edge of the pool and the exit stream that twisted and curved past my cabin out of the hills, lining the banks with smooth shale. Now the pool and stream were the starting point for all my night's rovings; no one would see the footprints of a Nord turn into the tracks of a wolf. Furthermore, if anyone were to try to follow me back to my cabin, all I had to do was plunge into the stream to erase all tracks and scent.

I paused on the bank of the pool, just before the smooth rocks. My hands were steady as I began to strip off my clothes, removing everything but my close-fitting undergarments; I had learned that all but skintight clothing was shredded and ruined in the transformation from Nord to wolf and back. Besides, I didn't need it in my wolf form, so why bother? I folded my worn blue shirt neatly as I set it on a flat boulder I had brought here just for this purpose, my sensitive fingertips brushing over the smooth silk. The pants were next, the fine cloth the last remnants of the life I once led: that of an adventurer wealthy with plunder. Now, I hoarded my wealth jealously, knowing that when it was gone, I would have to sell my keepsakes; my armor, my sword, my bow, and the things I had..._found_ over my two years as a werewolf. The smugglers who had owned the various possessions were dead, after all; why shouldn't I take them for my own?

I took a deep breath as I stepped onto the rock lining the banks of the pool, my pale skin covered with gooseflesh. I praised Hircine—the Daedra Lord of the hunt and of werewolves—that it was still warm; in winter, this was brutal....at least, until the ritual was complete. It had stopped hurting after the thirtieth time. I had stopped caring about the kill I made each night after the sixtieth. I lifted my arms and threw back my head in the beginning of my personal ritual, my black hair flowing down my back, free of its tie. Closing my eyes, I took one last deep breath, and then welcomed the change. One more thing I'd learned is that fighting the shift from Nord to wolf made it worse...and hurt.

But I welcomed the feeling of thick, luxurious black fur rippling down my skin, warming me faster and better than clothing ever could. I felt minor discomfort as my face contorted into a muzzle, as my spine stretched into a flowing, feathery tail, as my fingers and toes arched into claws. I don't know if the pain that once raked my body vanished as my bones became accustomed to this, or if I simply became used to it. In either case, I felt almost nothing as I changed forms, discarding one for the other. In those minutes, I was vulnerable; neither fully wolf to attack with claws and teeth, nor human enough to still use weapons. That was the main reason I sought privacy for this ritual; that and the fact that if anyone ever saw me change, I could kiss my 'normal' life goodbye.

The night opened up to me as my eyes changed from gray-blue to bright gold, and the transformation was complete. The shadows that I had seen with my 'normal' eyes were gone; I saw everything as if it was day. I stretched, flexing my claws, and took a moment to admire myself in the still waters of the pool. I was unusual in my black fur; most werewolves were russets, with the occasional snow-white or silver gray. But beyond that, I was the same as any of us who roved the island; a wolf contorted onto her hind legs, bigger than many of my kind, but smaller than some of the males. I grinned, exposing my sharpened fangs, and stepped into the chilly water of the stream, wading downstream, away from my cabin. Already the urge to kill tugged at me, and I listened to it as I had done since I had learned that killing made me strong...or at least, kept me from being weak. There was a small group of smugglers a few miles away, where this stream joined with a larger river. I had been weeding them out for a week now, leaving enough to make them think that they were still safe, enough to recruit more smugglers who would become prey for me. When I thought about it, it was amazing how fast I had changed from the adventurer's standpoint (kill all the smugglers in one bloody day) to the werewolf's (take the weak, the unwary, then move on to a different group, letting the first repopulate, etc.) To this day, I wasn't sure which view was right.

One bloody hour later, I lapped the icy stream water, using my claws to wash away the blood splatters on my fur. The urge to kill appeased for the night, I straightened, tilting my head back to sort through the scents of the night, sighing in satisfaction. The entire night was before me, and I could already hear the many of the other werewolves of Solstheim singing to the moon, the loose pack gathering for a hunt; they would track and chase some creature for the love and joy of it, not to feed. I wanted to throw back my muzzle and respond to their calls, telling them that I would join their gathering and their hunt...but something nagged at me, something terribly important...oh, yes. The Breton child. I had told Roc that I would look for him along my guar-trail, but as a Nord I had seen nothing. My senses were keener in this form; what the Nord missed, the wolf might see. I regretfully turned on my tail, leaving the calls of my species-kin unanswered, making my way back upstream to run along the guar-trail that led from my cabin to the outskirts of the town. I would do my duty to the colony, and help them find this child, utilizing all of my hunting abilities. And then I would run with my species-kin.

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This is the end for now. If you would like to read more please review.


	2. Chapter 2

By the time I had traversed the trail in question twice, I was getting worried. There was no sign of the child, not even around the town. It was a great risk that I took, running around the outskirts, nose to the ground, but it needed to be done. I _had_ to find the scent of the child...Besides, all the townspeople were either working the mines, sleeping, searching for the child in question, or drunk. I growled to myself from where I stood atop a hill, looking down over the colony and the wilderness beyond. I should have been able to pick up his scent in the town, but even that had been denied to me._ How_ could a child vanish like that?!

The wolf inside of me agreed with the Nord, whining. Pups don't have the power to vanish. Not even those who knew magicka; they were too young, and not powerful enough to work the spells that would cause them to instantly move from place to place. But with that being said, the child was still missing, and for once, the wolf sympathized and agreed with the Nord's worries. Few knew how much care wolves lavished on their pups, but care for them the wolves did. The death or vanishing of such a pup was a disaster.

I growled under my breath again as I picked up the scent of the searchers returning, and sank back into the shadows to watch. They came, torches high, steps weary, the scent of defeat and the rank smell of fear washing off them. Even before I looked over their number to be sure, I knew that there was no Breton child with them. They had tried, but they had failed, forced to return before the creatures of the night found them. I threw back my head and howled, crying my fury to the heavens above and the earth and creatures below. It wasn't fair! A child who had done no wrong, lost in the wilds of a wild island, likely to be killed before dawn by some creature or another, and I could not help without getting myself kill! Wait...

Who said that I couldn't? The wolf and the Nord, the two sides of me, agreed for the first time in many long years; the child must be found, and returned to its kin. I could search on my own...no!

I could have the entire population of werewolves search. I knew all them by name and by scent; many were innocents of the curse like me, who would want this one chance to be what they were before they became werewolves. They would want to be the heroes, not the villains. As for the others, well...most of them I could bully into following my orders: the few that I couldn't, someone else on my side could, or they would ignore us and we would ignore them. It was a perfect, foolproof plan. And I needed to get started _now_, before the night waned further.

And so I lifted my gaze to the stars above and howled again, this time long and loud, knowing that the ones forming into a pack for a hunt many miles away would hear me. I sang the news I had heard; that the Breton child Hethan was missing, and that the searchers had found nothing. But then—and here a tinge of laughter entered my voice—what else could one expect from those of the day trying to search by night? We, those night-born and night-chosen, would search. And we would find the missing pup.

Breathless, I waited for a response from the others. The voice that arose was rich and mellow, and I recognized it as the voice of Thunder, the leader of the werewolves who'd allied together to form the loose pack, "Yes, Shadow," he sang my name among wolves, "This night, we will not hunt prey, but hunt for this child. Come to the Gathering Place, for you shall lead us."

Even as I fell to all fours to run, I sang back, "Honor is bestowed on me, and I thank you for the lead of this hunt. I will return your position after this night, or however long it takes us to find the child. I come now. Make sure everyone has sated the bloodlust: I will trust no unblooded wolf with this."

"It will be as you say," he responded, and then was silent, leaving me to run for the Gathering Place, my gait eating up the miles. I had endurance and speed to spare for several non-wolves, and so it took me minutes to cover a distance that took most hours to travel. Our Gathering Place was secluded, even more so than most places on this island; a sanctuary for us in either form.

As I trotted under the arch of boulders that formed the entrance to the valley nestled between four guardian mountains, I looked over the assembled pack with astonishment; either Thunder had forced several non-pack werewolves to help us, or the 'scheduled' hunt had attracted non-pack wolves who wanted to stick around and help. Our numbers were close to two score, most like me; victims of circumstance, loners to the 'normal' world who joined the pack, if it could be called such, for companionship. Others had been werewolves for so long they couldn't remember any other life, and for them, the pack was a triumph, a defiant stance against those who would kill us. Still others only hung around because they knew that more werewolves meant an easier kill, and potentially more food for them, and more opportunities. I acknowledged all reasons as valid, and condemned no one, so long as they didn't betray us.

In the center of the valley was an upright boulder, not so big that one couldn't scramble up onto its flat top, but high enough that doing so made the speaker visible to all. Around it the pack had gathered, some with eyes turned upwards to the werewolf standing there, others towards me. I slowed, standing back on two legs as I walked forward, and a lane opened up for me, leading straight to the boulder and the werewolf atop it. Even as I leapt up next to him, I couldn't help but admire him.

No one knew what his true name was, but that was not unusual in this pack. Just as I was known as Shadow, so had everyone taken another name for themselves. Thunder was absolutely massive, even by our standards. A full two hands taller than I, he towered over both werewolves and normal species, his broad, strong shoulders causing even the toughest male among us—say nothing for the normal males!—to pause and reconsider challenging him. He was an amazing fighter, never having lost a battle since before he became a werewolf, one of the reasons we chose to have him as a leader. The other was the fact that he was wise, always making sure that we _all_ were protected, but not at the risk of the pack's exposure. His russet fur lightened to silver guard hairs, probably a pattern he had been 'born' with, not one that he aged into. A few silvery scars were visible under his fur, the tales of what had caused them untold. It struck me as ironic that he was in the same pose as Roc had been several hours ago, though neither male knew it. He greeted me with a nod, and spoke in the language of wolves and werewolves, a language I doubted any normal person would know or be able to learn, "All those willing to help have assembled now, Shadow. I turn my leadership over to you. Command us and me as you will." It was a mere formality, but a necessary one; with out, no one would listen to my orders.

I nodded in return and turned to look over the two score werewolves, all of whom regarded me with a mixture of hope and wariness. I took a deep breath and began, "Packmates, you heard what I said but minutes ago; the Breton child Hethan is lost, and the searchers failed to pick up his tracks. It now falls to us. We must find him, if only to return him to his kin. Through this deed, I pray that part of my darkness be redeemed; you know of what I speak, and many of you agree. This is what we must do..." I spoke in a calm, matter of fact tone, confirming what must have occurred to them before moving onto business, "Alone or in partners, we shall quarter up the island, searching for him or at the very least, his scent. Should you come across his trail, howl the Chase signal twice, and we will join you to follow it. Should you come across the child, defend him with your life, calling the Prey Found call all the while. Again, we will join you, and help you to protect and bring the child safely home."

I looked over the gathered werewolves, and began to assign sectors. To the fastest when the places furthest away, and I cautioned, "No matter how tempting, do not search the paths you take; go straight to the location I assigned, and search there. Trust that someone coming after you will search those places, but no one else can get to where you are going before morning." To the slyest when the places closest to the fort and colony, and again I warned, "Don't be seen. If need be, shrink in your search, but do not be seen by the normal people. You are no use to the pack dead." And to the strongest when the places infested with smugglers and berserkers. "Fight if you must, but know that there is no dishonor in fleeing combat this time. Your first duty is to search, not to kill smugglers."

After they had departed from our group, I turned to the vast majority of werewolves still gathered, and began to quarter up the island, impartial except towards places where certain skills—a particularly mountainous section, a vast plain that needed endurance to cross—were needed. One by one, they turned and trotted out of the Gathering Place as well, my last words ringing in their ears,

"Search until morning in your wolf forms, then continue the search in your normal ones if you are able to. Keep quartering and re-quartering your area. When in doubt: go father. I would rather that a section be searched twice than not at all. Don't look in the burrows yet; we'll leave that to the humans when they return. And trust me, they will return. When they do, use all your wit and skill to avoid being spotted in either form; I don't doubt that they'll take time away from their search to kill a werewolf. If you come across the child's trail while they are in your sector, do your best to alert them to it without putting yourself or the pack in danger."

Finally, there was only me, Thunder, and a small, loner werewolf whose territory bordered my house. We were on friendly terms...at least, as friendly as werewolves with no intention of mating ever got. I turned to him now and said, "You're one of our best trackers, Ranger. Try and pick up the child's trail; follow the mother's back to her cabin, where his scent will—with luck—be stronger. I don't have much hope, but it's worth a try." Ranger bowed to me, then turned on his tail and galloped between the boulders, the white tuft of fur on the end of his tail waving like a banner.

I grinned after him, then looked over to Thunder, "You search around this area. I don't think he would have gotten this far, or this deep into werewolf territory, but you know how children can be."

He nodded, "And you, Shadow? Where will you search?"

I took a deep breath, steeling my nerves, then grinned, exposing my fangs, "I'm going to pay a visit to the ten rouge werewolves. They _will_ tell me if they've seen the Breton child."

Thunder grinned as well at my feral tone, and nodded, clearly approving. We jumped off the boulder as if possessing one set of legs, and as he turned to scout around this area, I bounded out of the valley, turning to begin the long run towards the closest werewolf, praying to Hircine that this venture would not be in vain.

A/N: Much thanks to Mathek, who reviewed my first chapter. If you like this, review and tell me! With luck, I should be updating every week or thereabouts, depending on my schedual.


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: Forgot the disclaimer last chapter, but I think its clear that I only own what's mine by right of original characters. This was one of my favorite chapters to write, hands down._

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Several hours later, I was reminded why I alternately despised and pitied the rouge werewolves.

Most of them were stark raving mad!

I dispensed sanity in the form of claw-bearing cuffs, until they came to their wits long enough to tell me what I needed to know. Each had said the same thing; they hadn't seen or scented the Breton child; didn't even know that there was one missing. Even with this small blessing—none of my kind would be the cause of death—I snarled to myself as I trotted from the grove of the last rouge, even while I reflected on how they had become insane.

No one knew for sure, but my theory was that they cast themselves out from their community, or perhaps were cast out, and never joined with my pack. Deprived of the contact that both sides of them needed, not to mention the support, they became hermits, and the need to kill and maim eventually overcame their senses. In essence, they lived as wolves even in the day, and that drove them mad.

But who was I to contemplate philosophy at a time like this? The child still needed to be found, and I was no closer than when I started, save for the fact that I had mobilized the majority of the island's werewolves. I shook my head as I slowed to a walk, ears pricked up, listening for the two howls that would say that someone had come across the child's trail, at the very least. Save for sounds of the night, which I dismissed as common, there was nothing. I growled a particularly vehement werewolf curse, falling to all fours to run again, heading for the cabin of the Breton mother, and Ranger.

Alert to the softest bark of my species-kin, I learned what was happening with the search. Many were as frustrated as I was, but no one was willing to give up; to do so now, after we had pledged to find him, would be a blow to our pride. If anything, the knowledge that he would not be easily found made many throw themselves into the search; we were the best hunters and trackers on the island. If we couldn't find him, no one could. We _must_ find him. It was now a matter of pride. Many of the werewolves were Nords like me; tough, hardy, and stubborn. The combination of wolf and Nord seemed to multiply said stubbornness five times over.

A short bark greeted me, and I looked up to see Ranger standing a few yards away, waiting for me to catch up. I growled my own greeting, and called to him, "How goes the tracking?"

He winced, turning his head to continue even as he said, "Not good, not bad. I was able to get his scent at the cabin, but Stars does that child wander! I came across several dead ends before I found this trail, but even this one's pretty faint."

I nodded, and sniffed the ground curiously. Sure enough, besides the usual sent of holly and heather and the various creatures, there was the unmistakable scent of a Breton; the scent of magicka barely contained in their skin. I scouted around, and found a small footprint that reeked of the scent, and took several slow breaths, memorizing the nuances of that scent, the tiny details that would make it unique among the rest of the population of Bretons. When I looked up, I saw Ranger give me an approving nod, and I stretched, tilting my head back to seek out scents on the wind.

Together we padded, side by side, alternately sniffing the ground and thrusting our heads into the wind, the faint trail leading us on. I exchanged a skeptical glance with Ranger after three miles; surely no child wandered this far from home! But this Breton had already proven to be elusive, enough to fool not only the normal population of Solstheim, but also the werewolves. Our gait was a mile-eating tireless trot, not so fast that we couldn't pick up the scent, but fast enough. It was already morning by the strictest sense of time; three am, going by the stars. _Three more hours until we change back...probably two more hours until the humans head back out...We need more time! But not even the gods can stop the sun or moons...We can only keep searching. And pray that when we find the child, we're not too late.  
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Hours dragged by as Ranger and I continued following the faint trail, though it grew stronger with every step. Still, we were often forced to circle an area, noses to the ground, trying to pick up the long-cold trail again, ever alert for the howls that would end this insane hunt. I was distantly aware of the movements of the stars, the night's clock, slowly ticking down the hours until, like the townspeople, we would be forced to retreat. And I wasn't sure that I would regret collapsing on my bed to sleep through the day, without a second thought to the Breton child. Never in my life—either as an adventurer or as a werewolf—had I done such a thing. I had never worked so hard, much less all day _and_ all night. My paws were exhausted; it felt like I couldn't trot another mile.

But trot I did, on and on, head low, scarcely registering the fact that the scent was growing stronger beneath me; strong enough that now we never needed to search for the trail. The significance of this hit me just as the scent grew true enough to catch with my head lifted from the ground, and I glanced over at Ranger, grinning, "This is fresh, not more than a day old."

He sniffed at it, eyes wary until he had seen for himself that I spoke true, and only then nodded, "You're right. Call the Chase?"

I didn't answer, but tilted my head back and howled twice times before taking off in a sprint, weariness forgotten as adrenalin surged through me at the prospect of the end of this hunt. I howled the Chase call again even as I scrambled up a slope, hearing the calls of my species-kin echo behind me. They abandoned their own searches, joyfully calling to their neighbors, relaying the news, until even those to the far extremes would hear and come. Our species' great speed and stamina served all of us well; as I paused on the summit of the slope, I could see three werewolves running towards us stopping behind me, barely breathing hard. They acknowledged me as the leader of the hunt with wolfish bows, slinking back to sort out their own position with growls and snaps of their jaws.

I waited for five more to join us, then turned to Ranger and nodded, "Scout the trail ahead," I ordered. I almost went with him, then stamped the thought out. I was the leader of the pack for now, not a scout. I knew as well as any werewolf did that leaving a group of us together and unsupervised was a bad idea in every sense of the phrase. I needed to be here to keep them in line. It meant missing out on tracking the scent to its source, but I needed to be here. I felt a moment's guilt, then snorted to myself; gods, I was the leader of the pack! Werewolves fought and died for this position. True, I'd relinquish it back to Thunder when we found the child, but for now...

I settled down to wait with the other hunters for Ranger's return, staying quiet and still, forcing them to do the same. Though I was as impatient as they to be on the hunt, I had to lead by example, as the saying went...if I wasn't allowed to pace and snarl at the moon, then they weren't either. Though I fully admit; if I wasn't able to hear and smell Ranger's progress, not to mention follow his shadowy figure for as long as I was able, I wouldn't have done as well as I had.

But when he was lost to all senses, there was little I could do but crouch in the grass, with the hunters surrounding me, and wait for his return. As the minutes stretched on, more and more werewolves joined us, the most notable one being Thunder, and their soft growls to sort out the hierarchy of the hunt punctured the background sounds of the night.

With no warning, Ranger bolted into our midst, blowing hard from the long run. "Found him! But so has a necromancer!"

"Necromancer!?" I gasped. "I didn't know we had a necromancer on this island!"

"Apparently, we do. Big Orc, wields a _silver_ axe, and has already raised several..._bodies _to wait on him."

"What in the heavens does a necromancer want with a child?" One of the werewolves behind me asked, mostly to himself.

I had to consider that question, but commented before I had thought the situation through, "A soul is a soul. Enchanters can use the souls of rats to power their enchantments. I guess a Breton child's better than a rat...oh, gods! _Breton_. Magicka-born! Even at such an age, a Breton has more magicka than an Orc! And when the necromancer _does_ kill him and raises his body, he'll still have that vast resource of magicka, all at the command of the necromancer!"

Thunder shuddered, "Killed? Not necessarily. Slave bracers leech magicka, right? What if this necromancer learned that spell? He could absorb the child's magicka, store it in a soul-gem, maybe, let the child rest, and..."

I nodded, grim, "Etcetera. Like some vampires do to their victims. The child would be a constant source of life and magicka. And then, when he grew too costly to keep alive..." I trailed off, and my jaw tightened at the implication. "We have to stop him. Now." The werewolves around me nodded agreement, sickened by the description. "Right. Ranger, take them to the necromancer. Do your best with him. Continue to fight even after you change back. Try and get the child. Or just kill the necromancer. But we're going to need more help...the rest of the pack won't come in time. It's about five in the morning now. Those of Raven Rock should be out...."

"NO!" Ranger shouted when he saw where I was going with this.

"YES! They aren't vulnerable to silver. We are. I'll lead them to your necromancer. When you see them, scatter, get away as fast as you can, and run as far as you can. I'm willing to bet that they'll be too concerned with the Breton child and the necromancer to chase us. But if they do...use all your cunning to throw them off. I need not list all the tricks; you are hunters, you know them well. Remember the three aspects of the hunter; his strength, his speed, and his guile. Tonight, we have all used those aspects in one form or another. Continue to use them as you battle the necromancer, as I will continue to use them to bring the searchers to you."

I looked them over, and the thought occurred to me that this might very well be the last time I saw my species-kin alive. "Hircine watch over you, hunters."

With that, I turned my back on them and ran, even as behind me, Thunder took charge of the hunt. Their howls, though meant to encourage themselves and rally the rest of the pack to them, had much the same effect on me. Buoyed by the song of my species-kin, I raced through forest and over hills, twisting my head this way and that to try and catch the scent of the trackers..._Oh, come on! They're a big group of twenty or so men and elves. Most of them don't bathe regularly! They've _got_ to reek to the highest stars... Ah-ha!  
_

The slight waft of wind blew their faint scent towards me, and I turned into the wind, picking up speed now. They were so far from the necromancer...would they get there before my pack was decimated? Of course they would; the pack was strong, and soon all forty werewolves who had embarked on this search would be gathered to harass and fight the necromancer. Besides, I couldn't fall into despair; things were always darkest right before the dawn. Literally, too.

I crested a rise, and couldn't stop a sigh of relief as below me, I saw the assorted searchers, all with torches high, as if werewolves were afraid of fire, not silver. I didn't pause, a rudimentary plan forming in my mind as I bolted downhill, straight towards them.

A deep growl formed in my throat, and I leapt for the throat of one, deliberately missing to hit the ground running. I turned slightly, heading back towards the necromancer, with one major difference; now that I 'had attacked,' they felt obligated to kill me. But first, they had to catch me...I may not have been fast enough to outrun arrows and magicka, but I was agile enough to dodge them. My point was proven when I leapt to one side, a steel bolt shattering on the rocks where I had been.

I plunged through the ancient pines of the forest, slowing now. Over rugged terrain, I was far faster than man or mer, and I didn't want to lose my pursuers...they had to get to the necromancer. It was a fine line I walked; fast enough so that I wasn't killed, slow enough that they could keep up and still have enough wind to fight the necromancer. Their shouts of "Kill the beast!" echoed behind me as I wove between the trees, never giving them a clear shot of me, but making sure that my distinctive black pelt was always in sight.

I continued working my way northeast, wanting so much to flat-out run; I could have been fighting the necromancer by now if I didn't have to lead these bumbling two-leggers! But, I reminded myself, if I didn't lead the colonists to the necromancer and thus the subject of their search, it was certain that at least one of my species-kin would be killed by the necromancer, most likely many more, some to the silver axe, others to his 'servants,' and still others to the deadly magicka of the necromancer himself. With the help of the colonists, at least the pressure of the battle would be off us; we wouldn't _need_ to get close to the necromancer, risking undead servants, poisonous silver, and destructive magicka. The colonists could do that.

I was so caught up in my thoughts that only the sound of battle jerked me back into reality. I had covered the remaining distance to were we'd found the necromancer without even thinking about it. I couldn't slow, or risk getting into the range of the colonists, who still shouted their battle cries towards me. But I did prick up my ears, listening closely as I scrambled up the hill above the battlegrounds. Yes, there were the snarls of my species-kin. And there were the sounds of pitched combat...I crested the hill, and paused a moment, taking in the mêlée below me.

The necromancer _was_ a big Orc, the most recognizable of the non-beast species...though some would argue the non-beast part. Not that he was taking part in the battle; he was standing with his back to a large rock, waving his silver axe at his 'servants:' five skeletons, four walking corpses, and one summoned Winged Twilight.

The pack had their paws full with that lot, four or so harassing each, doing their best to stay out of their 'quarry's' range, darting in to snap and slash at the joints of the skeletons and corpses. They weren't quite sure what to do with the Winged Twilight, and so settled for keeping it occupied, circling around so that it had _its_ wings full defending its back. But the pack hadn't gotten close to the necromancer yet; a blessing and a curse. None of them had suffered at the wrong end of that silver axe, but none of them had gotten any closer to rescuing little Hethan. I could see him, too, planted at the side of the necromancer, and I could smell his fear over the varied scents of the battle.

I was infamous for acting on the first half-formed idea that popped into my mind, and this time was no exception. With the colonists closing in, I tilted my head back and howled the name of a werewolf with a special gift for jumping...He backed out of his battle with a skeleton, and trotted up the slope some distance from me. As I loped over to him, I heard the searchers cresting the rise, and heard their gasps of astonishment: they weren't quite sure what to make of forty-some werewolves spontaneously fighting a necromancer and his summonings...then a great cry went up, and I knew they had seen Hethan. The sound of many booted feet charging down the hill to engage the necromancer's servants reassured me; taken by the frenzy of battle as they were, they wouldn't even remember fighting shoulder to jowl with werewolves when this was all over.

But at that moment I had drawn close to the werewolf I had summoned, a tall, lanky male who called himself Flyer. With short, quick barks, I told him what I wanted from him. He nodded agreement, and we turned to run along the ridge that surrounded the battlegrounds. Our stride extended as we circled towards the necromancer, until we were running at our top speed, the speed usually used to chase down the more evasive of prey. It didn't matter much that we'd been running all night and were tired. It didn't matter that in a little less than an hour, we would change back to our normal forms, most of us to sleep until night. No, what mattered was getting Hethan to safety. And so we ran along the ridge until we were behind the necromancer; because we were not part of the direct battle, he ignored us, perhaps assuming that we were fleeing. How very wrong.

Without slowing, we turned down the slope, sprinting now for the necromancer and his prisoner. It was not a great distance, perhaps five of our extended strides. When we were close enough, I gave a short bark, signaling to Flyer. He collected himself, muscles tensing, and then he showed why the name Flyer suited him.

He _soared_ through the air between us and the necromancer, all his weight focused on his front paws. He slammed into the necromancer, snapping at his unprotected back...the Orc went down hard, several hundred pounds of fighting male werewolf on his back, bearing him down. Just like I planned...for a change.

As the necromancer fumbled with his axe, trying to bring it around to slam into Flyer's side, I launched myself into the air as well. However, I landed next to Hethan, my jaws dipping to close on the nape of his shirt. With a broad gesture of my head, I slung him onto my back even as I hit the ground running.

And then I turned and for once in my life fled the battle, my long legs carrying me over the ridge in a matter of breaths. On my back, the Breton child flopped up and down like a guar-leather pack, right on my spine, until he got his head together and sank his hands into my thick black pelt, working his knees around to grip my sides. _And this is the downside of the plan...I have to play 'horse' for him...oh, well. At least he's not kicking.  
_

I tilted my head back and bayed once, letting the pack know that their job was done at last; I had the child, and I was returning him to his cabin. They could—and did, from their barks and howls—back out of the fight, vanishing into the night without the colonists being any the wiser. I slowed by headlong sprint after a few miles, trotting as fast as I could; soon, I would be forced to change back to my normal form, and if I did so in front of this child...I was dead. But I couldn't run like I had been. Thus the compromise and the trotting.

For the life of me, I cannot remember what happened between cresting the ridge away from the battle and getting to Mistress Veta's cabin, only that it seemed to take forever. But I couldn't have been any slower than when I was searching for the scent with Ranger...I shoved it out of my mind, noting that I was at least partially delirious with lack of sleep. However, I can remember the instant that I stopped in front of the wooden door, the instant Hethan released his death-hold on my fur and slid off. Primarily because at that moment, the sun broke clear of the horizon. And when the first ray of light touched my pelt, I began the change back to a tall female Nord. Right. In. Front. Of. Hethan.

I gritted my teeth and tried to focus, tried to slow or stop it, tried to remain a wolf...but it was no use. Even though the change was slow and gradual, as if even that part of me was tired and sapped of strength, there was nothing I could do. I couldn't even move out of his line of sight.

For his credit, Hethan took a half-step back, a puzzled frown creasing his brow as he regarded the series of changes with scholarly curiosity, not with repulsion or horror as any adult would have. Finally, when I straightened from where I'd crouched, fully Nord, he nodded once and said, "You're secret's safe with me. You saved my life, after all."

I'm sure my jaw dropped at that calm statement. It was a long minute before I could form coherent words, "Hircine bless you forever, young one." Then I turned, still thanking all the Daedric Lords I knew or could think of for the honor and the simple views of an eight-year old, and began the long walk back to my own cabin.

* * *

_As always, if you like this story, please review and tell me! If you see mistakes or places that I could improve in, again, please tell me; I welcome constructive criticism. Much thanks to _Mathek, Jman, xvwvx, reviewer, and Daystorm Mage_, who all reviewed previous chapters. _


	4. Chapter 4

_Like always, nothing is mine except original characters.

* * *

_

Like the trip to Veta's cabin, I can't remember much of the journey to my home, not until I was weaving between the pine trees, walking down my guar-trail, and when my little cabin came into sight, my heart lifted. I would have ran down the path, but it felt as though molten lead flowed through my veins, and the best I could manage was a slight quickening of my pace.

A touch and a murmured word unlocked the door, and I slid in with a long sigh, glad to lock the door behind me. I paused in the main room of my cabin, tempted to collapse in the hammock strung between the two walls of a corner, used for the few guests I got. Of course, if I did that, odds were good that I wouldn't get up for a week. And I was hungry.

I rooted through a sack near the door leading back into my bedroom, and settled for a stalk of saltrice, promising myself a proper meal later. Chomping on the sweet plant, I hesitated, then sighed and pulled out the bottle of flin I'd just bought, taking a swig of the alcohol to wash down the slightly gritty texture of the saltrice.

Pleasant warmth spread from my belly out to my skin, and I sighed, wishing for a moment that I had sprung for the Cyrodiilic brandy. Then I shook my head at my own folly, took another mouthful of the whisky, capped it, and wandered off to bed. I was asleep before my head touched the soft pillow.

Like many of my kind, I dreamed of chasing a moon as red as blood over hills and through forests, all of my species-kin running beside me, howling both the Chase and the Hunt. The landscape seemed to blur below our paws, unimportant as we loped through the perfect hunting grounds for the perfect hunt; we ran for the joy of running, the moon always before us. Though we knew we would never be able to catch it, we sought it, and in the search, found hope and peace, and welcome among our species.

Loud pounding on my door woke me from my dream, and I lifted my head from my down pillow as a familiar voice called out, "Tiama? Are you in there?" _Why on, above, or under the earth is Roc here?_ Curiosity driving me, I stretched like a waking wolf, and then gathered my blanket around my shoulders, as I had yet to retrieve my clothing from the flat rock outside. As I walked out of my bedroom and to the door, I glanced out my windows, grinning ruefully to myself when I saw that I had drawn the curtains and shutters closed, as I always did before I went out roving for the night. I pulled open the door, and my smile vanished.

Roc stood on my threshold, fiddling with a silver sword, nervous. But behind him, most of the colonists who I had lead to the necromancer formed a grim wall of flesh, the glitter of silver weapons flashing in the late afternoon sun. My heart froze solid. _That little...! He told them! _I scanned their faces, noting that though they were as tired as I was, they had a firm grip on their weapons, their eyes jaded, hardened in preparation...I shoved the thought out of my mind, trying not to think about it. Instead I turned to Roc and nodded, arching a brow, asking him without words what they were doing here.

He took a deep breath and blurted out, "Mistress Veta's son was taken from a battle with a necromancer by a werewolf. We tracked it back to her cabin, and astonishingly enough, found Hethan safe and sound. But...the tracks didn't end there, even though they changed from wolf to...normal. We followed them back here."

He fell silent, eyes downcast, and when he looked back up at me, his eyes were begging me to deny it, to have a reasonable explanation. My grip tightened on the doorframe, but I said nothing. _Careless! The one time I didn't come home by the stream... _Roc cleared his throat, and mumbled, "We...we're going to give you the benefit of the doubt, Taima. But we still need to have a Silver Trial. If nothing happens, you will have a full apology from all of us..."

My blood ran cold. A Silver Trial was used when a person was suspected of being a werewolf, but there was no evidence against them. Just before nine at night, a jury of up to twenty wielding silver weapons surrounded the person in question. If the accused changed, proving their guilt, they were killed by silver. I didn't know what happened if they were innocent, but it didn't matter. In this case, I was guilty, and I would die. And there was nothing I could do to change that fact.

I realized that Roc was still speaking, and forced myself to pay attention, "Taima, I beseech you; if you _are_ guilty, confess now, and I'll make sure your death is painless."

As fast as my blood had turned to ice, it heated faster, a snarl twisting my lips. "I confess to _nothing!_" I growled, turning my back on the clearing, slamming the door behind me. Then I leaned against it, breathing hard, a tear springing to my eye despite my anger.

I had just as good as admitted to being a werewolf with those actions. And even if by some miracle I didn't change this night, I was still doomed; they'd never trust me again. They'd 'convince' me to move into the colony, and I'd be surrounded by normal people day and night, people who could never understand the dream of the moon of blood. _The pack..._I thought desperately, then brushed the thought aside. There was no way I could get a message to them, seeing as they were scattered all over the island, and even if I could, what could they do? Kill or drive off the jury before I changed? Then what? I'd still be vulnerable here; the colonists would just come another night, and I wouldn't get lucky again.

I straightened, chin tilting up, fists clenching. I might die tonight, but I'd take a few down with me. They wouldn't find it easy to kill _this_ werewolf! I had about six hours until they came for me. That was enough time to rest and gather my strength, and to prepare for the second battle less than a day. I would not submit, bearing my throat for an easy death. I would die fighting them. And after I died, my species-kin would sing of my valor and my courage for generations.

The knowledge of that did little to comfort me those long hours before night fell, and I spent much of my time pacing up and down my small cabin, mulling over the mysteries of life and of my own species. I found few answers, but it didn't really matter; no one would hear my theories anyways.

_I suppose I'm the only werewolf philosopher...or does everyone think about these things at some point in time or another? I guess I'll never know. Oh, Ranger, Flyer, Thunder! If only I could say good-bye, my big brave males. White-heart, Ebony, Firebrand, my female friends...I wish I could have told you three how much you meant to me. Without your support, especially that first year, I never would have survived. I will miss you, and all the pack, without exception. Hircine bless your hunt forever.  
  
_

I took a deep breath, and then released it. The shadows caused by the thin ray of sun that wiggled under the shutters had grown long with the onset of night, then vanished as dusk fell. It was time.

My legs and hands where steady as I stood, opened the door, and walked outside. The jury had assembled in the closest thing to a clearing near my cabin, a place where the trees were a little farther apart than normal. They had already formed the circle, weapons drawn in preparation for the Silver Trial. Four torches were mounted on tall poles to give light to the darkness of the forest at night, but beyond their circular glow, I could see nothing but shadows, just like always.

For a moment, I wanted to bolt for those shadows and dive into a bush of some kind until the change passed...but they'd already seen me, and I would _not _take the coward's way out. My back was straight as I crossed to them, entering into their circle. The flickering lights of the fire didn't bother me, but the play of light over silver did; I had spent far too much time as a wolf not to know what silver did to the flesh of a werewolf.

It was the only poison we were susceptible to, even though by the strictest technicality, it wasn't a poison. But it acted like one when a silver weapon pierced our skin, be it arrow or sword or axe. Those wounds were always slow to heal, and prone to infection, but if they were 'clean'—that is, if the silver weapon was removed from the wound—they _would_ heal...my species was renowned for having incredible healing powers, and it was possible that even the most serious wound done to a werewolf would heal...barring a direct thrust to the heart, of course.

Of course, I wouldn't ever get a chance to demonstrate those incredible healing abilities ever again. I could guess what would happen when I began to change; those mages standing in an arc would try to paralyze or burden me so that I'd be an easier target, then the archers standing in _their_ arc would fire several arrows into me, and then the rest of the circle with hand-weapons would close in and...I stopped my thoughts right there, not wanting to depress myself any further. Instead, I looked around the circle, turning to see them all.

_Now, who's the weakest link: the mages, the archers, or the others?_ I scratched out those wielding swords and other hand-weapons, biting my lip as I considered archers verses mages. If I got close to the archers, neither they or the mages would be able to use ranged attacks for risk of hitting their comrades, but a quote niggled at the back of my mind: _"When in doubt, kill the wizard."_ And besides, if I got close enough to the mages and they decided to risk using magicka, then there was a good change they'd hit one of the other mages. _Alright, mages it is...that High Elf looks pretty weak in the physical aspect of it; I should be able to overpower him. From there..._A dozen plans leapt into my mind, and though I knew that I'd never be able to escape, I sorted through them, picking the one that would let me survive the longest and kill the most. Perhaps it was the wolf in me that wanted to kill so many this night, or perhaps it was my own nature that wanted to die fighting...

I felt my breath catch in my lungs, the prickling of hair along my arms and neck alerting me to what I had already guessed; the hour was at hand. I tipped my head back, and saw in the star-studded sky but one moon: the one that was deep red in color. The blood moon. _Fitting..._I mused as soft black fur raced down my neck, my arms, my torso. From all around me, I heard gasps of shock and soft cries of outrage. A stone soared over my head, thrown by some outraged colonist...no, wait...

"Leave her alone! She saved my life!" Hethan's clear young tenor cut across the demi-clearing as more and more stones were thrown. The solid sound of stone against flesh soon filled the air, most of the circle breaking as men and mer alike cried in surprise and pain, clutching at various parts of their anatomy. I admired his aim for one moment, noting that the rocks were hitting their targets almost without exception, then I shook my head to myself and put all my energies into making the important changes as fast as possible—claws, muzzle, legs—while the jury was distracted by the infuriated child.

Roc strode out of his place at the apex, his armor protecting him from the blows, frowning as he approached the Breton child. The big Nord grabbed Hethan by the upper arms, bodily lifting him up off the ground to look into his eyes, "Look, Hethan, we _have_ to kill it; it's dangerous, a threat to the colony, bloodthirsty..." He gave an inarticulate cry of pain as Hethan kicked him where males don't like to be kicked, doubling over. Hethan wiggled free, sparks flying from him in his anger. He backed off, gathering another handful of stones. Those in the circle did their best to back away or dodge these; now the stones had curious blue sparks flicking over their surface, and no one wanted to find out what magic the child had managed to do.

And through this all, I was forcing the change, gritting my teeth at the sharp jolts of pain from the speed of things. I was almost finished when an archer noticed me and gave a sharp cry, loosing an arrow. I was lucky; one of Hethan's stones had just hit him, and the arrow—no doubt aimed for my heart—slammed into my shoulder. I whimpered in spite of myself, and used one claw to break off the arrow close to my skin, so that it wouldn't hamper me later. Then I leaped for the archers even as I finished the last of the changes, seeing that the mages were too busy trying to counter and calm Hethan to be much of a problem. Startled, only one managed to hit me with another arrow, this one deep into my flank. Then my proximity forced them to put their bows away and fumble for other weapons. For a wild moment as they hurried to change weapons, I got in a few powerful blows; including one that I'm sure killed an archer where he stood...

But then a silver axe bit into my side, skittering across my ribs, most of the blow deflected...but that didn't mean that it didn't hurt. Even as I cried out in pain I turned, lunging at the Redguard behind me, who had wielded the axe. He stepped back, causing me to stumble, leaving myself open for attack as I tried to recover. I heard him raise his axe up high to behead me, then scream with shock and pain. The loss of blood and the presence of silver in the wounds was making me dizzy; I could swear that I heard the snarls of my species-kin, but that was impossible...

I looked up, and saw that the impossible _was_. The circle of colonists had been hit from the outside, from the shadowy forest, by three wedges of werewolves, forcing the humans and elves to split into several groups. Very few of the jury were paying attention to me now, most concerned with the new intruders.

"For Hircine's sake, Shadow, don't just stand there! Run!" The werewolf who'd killed the Redguard yelled, and I blinked when I recognized Firebrand, a russet whose fur was tinged with gold and whose temper was infamous.

"What...?"

"Stars and moons, that axe must have hit you harder than I thought," a werewolf on my other side growled as she fought off an archer with a short sword, her blue-black fur as unusual as my own. _Ebony? How...?  
  
_

Firebrand grunted deep in her throat, and slammed into my good shoulder, forcing me to all fours, "I don't care, we'll deal with that later! Shadow, run! White-heart's waiting just beyond the hills to help you to the Gathering Place. Move!" Turning from me, she barked an order to her wedge, and they wheeled about, driving the colonists before them like guar...away from me, clearing a path that led into the forest proper.

I tried to trot, and was rewarded with three hot brands of fire and pain laid across my shoulder, my flank, and my side, where silver had wounded me. Black and sun-white sparks whirled and competed for dominance in my sight, and I knew I swayed on my feet even as I stumbled up the hill, wanting so much to black out once and for all...but to do so here and now, in the midst of battle, would be suicide, and so I clamped down on the pain, forcing myself to focus until my gaze cleared. By that time, I had slid into the pine trees around my house, out of sight of the battle.

"That's right, Shadow," a soft, clear voice murmured close to my ear, "This way, north to the Gathering Place." I blinked hard, and could just see the outline of a black werewolf against the black forest, her only marking a circle of white on the left side of her chest, over her heart. _Three black werewolves; Ebony, White-heart, and me..._The delirious thought trailed across my mind as I stumbled again, pain clouding my vision.

Soft warmth eased up against my wounded shoulder, and White-heart murmured, "Easy, Shadow, easy. Lean on me." I felt rather than saw her gaze sweep across me, evaluating my wounds, and a groan was ripped from my throat as she twined two claws around the arrow still stuck in my flank. "It has to come out, Shadow. Just relax, it'll feel a lot better when..." she yanked the silver arrow, hard, ripping it out of my flesh, "it's out," she finished needlessly, tossing the arrow away. Even as I continued to move north she dipped her head, cleaning my wounds with long, gentle sweeps of her tongue. "It's going to be all right, Shadow. They'll never find you in the Gathering Place, even if they did have the inclination to look for you...which they won't. Not when the pack gets done with them."

"How...?" I gasped, limping on my bad leg, my shoulder still afire with the silver arrowhead embedded in it.

"Ranger," White-heart said simply, helping me over a log, "He was coming to check on you, to let you know that everyone got away safely, and saw the colonists gathered around your door..." She shrugged, "He didn't hear much, but he heard enough, and so ran and got Thunder. Thunder rallied some of the pack to him; told them to spread the word to all the other werewolves, and to have everyone meet him in your forest just before eight tonight. They cobbled together a rough plan, and, well....you know the rest."

I nodded, gritting my teeth to keep from screaming in pain each step I took. Dark crimson blood dripped from my wounds, no doubt marking our trail for anyone to follow, but I found that I couldn't summon up the energy to care. I let White-heart guide me, my eyes almost slitted shut as I focused on taking the next step, and then the next, all the way to the Gathering Place. Unlike my earlier journeys, I remembered every step of that one, every pulse of fire when something rubbed up against my side or my leg, every drop of blood that oozed out onto my fur or onto the ground, every time White-heart dropped her head to lick my wounds, even most of the soothing words she muttered, encouraging me along.

It was early morning when I stumbled under the two boulders forming the entrance into our Gathering Place, hardly conscious of my surroundings. White-heart nudged my neck with her muzzle, guiding me over to the base of one of the guardian mountains. She reached forward, gripping a notch cut into the side of the mountain, and heaved outward. A narrow passage opened, and she nodded, coaxing me into the blackness of the cavern.

Inside, there was wasn't enough light to see where I was placing my claws, but from what I could feel, it was a small cave, barely big enough to stretch full out in, with a low ceiling. "This place is sometimes used when a werewolf is too ill or too hurt to move far..." White-heart murmured even as she helped me to my knees, and then to stretch out on the smooth, cool rock floor. "You just rest now; I'll be outside keeping guard if you need anything..." At last, the strain of my wounds proved too much, and White-heart's form and words faded as darkness overtook my senses.

* * *

_Thanks to Falcira, Crazy Elf Paladin, SilverSunflower, and Daystorm Mage, who reviewed! Keep up the good feedback, I encourage constructive criticism._


	5. Chapter 5

"No, no…pick her up." Those words, followed by someone sliding an arm under my shoulders and knees, lifting me off the floor, jerked me from my delirious dreams. I was pressed against something—or someone—warm and strong; I was just aware of the cold, and of my skin trembling, even though the wounds still felt like fire.

The rough voice continued, "Roll out the bedrolls, just like that. Cover them with two of the grizzly skins, furry-side up. Now the snow bear pelt…You can put her down now, Adian." The warmth that held me lowered my body, and my back touched soft fur. "Pack wolf pelts all around her, and cover her with another snow bear pelt. If that doesn't keep her warm, nothing will…" The voices faded as darkness claimed me once more.

* * *

Something elevated my head, a firm hand rubbing the hinge of my jaw to open my mouth. A fiery liquid was poured down my throat, and I gasped at the heat even as I swallowed…not the slow, soothing heat whisky or brandy, but like a hard kick to my gut. But the pain in my wounds numbed, though by no means eased; I _knew_ that the wounds still hurt, and that I'd feel them after the potion or whatever wore off, but I couldn't _feel_ them. It occurred to me that I wasn't making much sense, and was feverish or delirious, most likely both.

"There…that should help bolster her health, but it won't do a thing for her wounds…I just don't have the right ingredients! And what'll happen after tonight? You _know_ she won't be able to make a kill, Adian…"

_Why are kills so important?_ I wondered even as I drifted back into a dreamless sleep. The last coherent thought I had for sometime was, _Oh, that's right…because I'm a werewolf. And if we don't kill at night, we become weaker…_

* * *

Cool hands gripped my own, and I groaned, opening my eyes. I looked up into the face of a pretty young Wood Elf, a Bosmer, her forehead creased in worry. "Stay with me, Shadow," she begged when she saw that my eyes were open, "They don't think you'll wake up again if you go back to sleep…"

I fought the blackness that rose up in waves, seeking me, recognizing in some distant part of my mind that the Bosmer was right. _But why…_It was then I noted that my flank and my side didn't hurt as much as my shoulder…. I croaked out an unintelligible word, and the female helpfully wetted my lips with a damp rag, letting me suck some moisture down my dry throat. I tried speaking again, and was able to make myself understood this time. "Shoulder!"

The Bosmer blinked, and reached for my right shoulder…as soon as her fingers brushed across the wound, the pain redoubled, and I blacked out.

* * *

I was vaguely aware of some female that I was sure I knew sobbing above me, whispering over and over, "Such a little thing…such a little thing…."

Another voice, this one male and again familiar, murmured, "Such a little thing to weep. So sure a thing to sigh. And yet by traits the size of these, we men and women die."

"Stop talking like that, both of you!" An old, harsh voice barked, "Taima Shadow is young and strong; now that the silver is out of her blood, she might pull through. Adian, go make yourself useful outside. Irwaen, sit with her. Let me or Eponis know if anything changes…" I slid back to sleep, a deep, dreamless, healing sleep.

* * *

A claw brushing across my muzzle half-roused me, but I didn't open my eyes as I normally would have. Sometime in the course of my sleep, I had rolled onto my belly, and so the claw slid down the back of my neck and along my spine, stroking me…not as one would pet a dog, but more the like soothing a mother gives a child. The notes of someone singing reached my ears, and while I found it too hard to follow the lyrics, I enjoyed the haunting melody. I was just able to pick up what seemed to be the refrain;

"In the Valley of Dana, the echoes rang around me. In the Valley of Dana, with battle cries amid the tombs…"

"White-heart?" A soft growl called from the outside, and the singing and the stroking stopped. The warm presence of another werewolf near me left, from the sounds to stand near the entrance to talk to whoever was outside. I didn't strain to hear the conversation as I normally would have, but drifted off back to sleep.

* * *

A translation of the refrain of the song La tribu de Dana, by the French band Manau. Those who know the band and the song should note that the style of the music and a few of the words would be slightly different to fit into the context of Morrowind. 


	6. Chapter 6

The next time I woke, it was the slow waking that I hadn't experienced since before I was wounded. I was first aware of the sounds from outside; the sound of saws and hammers punctured by frequent curses and arguments, all done at full voice, easily audible to me. Below my hand resting on the stone floor of the cavern, I could feel the mountain tremble, could just hear rocks fall _within _the mountain…I didn't take the time to puzzle either out, but instead stretched slowly, opening my eyes, wincing as the wounds made themselves heard once again, though nowhere near the intensity of what they had been. I rolled onto my back with an effort, and worked my good arm underneath me, propping myself up so I could see.

A shaft of light streamed through the narrow opening of the entrance, and I wasn't unduly surprised to see the Bosmer from before sitting at the foot of my bed—a conglomerate of various furs—softly singing to herself in her native tongue as she braided her dusty gold hair. She looked up, and smiled when she saw my eyes on her. "You're awake! The healers thought it might be sometime today…how do you feel?"

"Umm…better…but confused. Do I know you?"

She grinned, "Not in this form, no. You'd know me as Ebony. But my real name, if you want to call it that, is Irwaen."

"Oh!" Now some of the conversations I had heard during the few moments I was awake were beginning to make sense. "White-heart would be Eponis, right?"

"Oh, you're good," Irwaen laughed. "You are _very_ good. Yes, White-heart is a Redguard healer named Eponis."

"And Adian…?" I prompted, recalling the other name I had often heard.

She laughed again, "Thunder, of course! The biggest Nord you've ever laid eyes on! And the handsomest," she wiggled an eyebrow at me, winking.

I arched a brow in her general direction, "You know, they're right when they say that Wood Elves have no manners."

"We don't need manners," she retorted, taking the gibe in good humor, "We can shoot straight and run like the wind."

"So you can shoot anyone who takes offense to what you tell them, then run from the guards?"

"Something like that," she laughed.

I settled back on my arm, and another name came to my lips, "What about Ranger?"

"What about him? Oh, you mean who is he? Ranger is a Bosmer, like me, called Pegasai."

"Pegasai…" I repeated, the name familiar but…My eyes widened when I realized where I'd heard it, "The rogue…!"

"…who gave all that he stole to those who needed it and who was never captured…but _was_ savaged by a werewolf. He couldn't show his face around any civilized area, so…"

I nodded, amazed, "So he became one of us," I finished.

"That's the long and short of it, yeah," she nodded.

My mind buzzed with questions, and I leaned back against my arms, trying to comprehend all that had happened and all that was still happening. One of the simplest questions I still had bubbled to my lips, "There was someone else who watched over me, wasn't there? An older male, harsh voice…?"

Irwaen nodded, "Boromor, better known as 'Elder.' He's the oldest werewolf _I've_ ever seen…most of us tend to get killed by the colonists when we start getting old and careless, you know…"

I nodded, considering a moment before saying slowly, "So you, Adian, Eponis, and Boromor stayed with me to tend to my wounds. Did the rest of the werewolves get away from the fight safely?"

She gave me a puzzled look, then burst out laughing, "Of course they did! They're all…oh. That's right; you _wouldn't_ know…" A slow, secretive smile spread across her face as her eyes danced in laughter.

"What is it?" I asked, curious but not worried, "What happened to the others?"

"I don't know if I should tell you," she said slowly, a smile still curving her lips, "You're still pretty weak, after all…maybe it would be better if I…"

"Irwaen, don't tease her," a tall Redguard scolded as she entered into the tiny cavern. As she knelt by my head, she continued in the Wood Elf's general direction, "She's got a right to know." Then she rested a hand on my forehead for a moment, palm-up, before flipping it over, "You don't have much of a fever anymore," she informed me, "and I'll be willing to bet that the wounds in your flank and side are almost completely scared over…can't promise anything for the shoulder, but then again, the silver was in it a lot longer…."

"That's…good?" I offered, thrown slightly by her sudden and causal appearance. _She has to be White-heart—I mean, Eponis…Hircine, this will take a while to get used to!_ I glanced over at Irwaen and prompted her again, "What happened to the rest of the werewolves?"

Irwaen held her silence for a second longer, letting the suspense build, then blurted out as if she could no longer stand to keep her silence, "They formalized the pack!"

I fell back onto the furs in shock, "What! You mean…instead of just coming together every so often to hunt or whatever, we…"

Eponis nodded, peeling back the pelts around me to unwind the bandages around my wounded shoulder, "We are now an actual pack, yes. The males even headed up to Hrothmund's Bane—you know, that formation of rocks and ice that looks like a wolf with a crypt for the eye?—to determine who would be the leader of the pack."

"Thunder won, of course," Irwaen cut in. "But that's not all of it! Tell her the rest, Eponis!"

The Redguard healer arched an eyebrow, not looking away from the raw wound, "All of the rest, Irwaen?" The Wood Elf began to nod, then stopped, a look of horror on her face. Eponis continued as if she hadn't noticed Irwaen's reaction, "I hate to be the bearer of bad tidings, even when they're mixed with good. Adian, as the leader of the pack, and because it was his idea, should be the one to tell her,"

Irwaen hesitated, emotions warring on her face, but impatience won out, "But he won't be back until twilight! Maybe not even 'till morning if his friend Korst Wind-Eye keeps him late…"

I blinked in confusion, and decided not to ask. I was starting to get uneasy; what bad news were they talking about? Obviously something that pertained to me, but I had just been publicly accused of being a werewolf and almost died of a silver arrowhead, for Hircine's sake! How much worse could life get? Eponis shrugged as she pulled a small bottle of some strong-smelling liquid from the small satchel she carried, liberally pouring it over my shoulder, the liquid stinging, then soothing, the half-healed flesh, "True enough…but one of the Council should tell her, at the very least." To my arched eyebrow she commented as she began to wind a clean bandage over the wound, "Six of the oldest werewolves—three male, three female—are going to serve as judges in the event that one of us breaks the laws of the pack…which we have yet to figure out. Also, they'll serve as guides—in matters of spirit or the heart—for us, like shamans or wise women."

The Bosmer cursed aloud, "For the love of the hunt, Eponis! _Boromor's_ on the Council!"

Dusting off her hands, Eponis rocked back on her heels and fixed the younger female with a tired gaze, before nodding in surrender, "Very well. Go find him and let him know that Taima's awake." Flushed with victory, Irwaen leapt to her feet and bolted out of the small cavern, her footsteps crunching on the snow outside. Eponis shook her head, and shifted the furs surrounding me a bit more, so that my side was exposed. I followed her gaze down to it, and whistled in spite of myself at the ragged scar that stretched diagonally down my ribs. "And to think that I was never in danger of dieing from this one," I said, awed.

Eponis glanced up, and shrugged as she pulled out a different bottle from her satchel. As she poured a little bit of the oily liquid into her hands, rubbing them together to warm the oil before sliding them over the scar, she commented, "In a sense, you were. This wound sapped strength which could have been better used to fight off the silver in your blood. But I see your point; in normal circumstances, no, you wouldn't have danced with death over this one." She kneaded the sore muscle and flesh of my side for a moment, then shifted positions yet again, tugging the furs over me before rolling me onto my side to give her access to the second arrow-wound. Unlike my shoulder, this one was just a small, neat scar. Eponis made a noise of satisfaction before rubbing the oil into it, her strong hands easing the ache.

Just as she was wrapping the wolf pelts back over me and pulling the snow bear pelt atop them, Irwaen returned, leading a tall, older Nord male. Even with three in the cavern, we were cramped, but we could squeeze in three if no one moved much. Four, however, was stretching it. Fortunately enough, Eponis seemed to sense this as well, for she stood and quietly excused herself, snagging Irwaen's elbow on the way past, dragging her out as well. The Nord I could safely assume was Boromor watched them go with an amused smile, then sank down onto his haunches at the side of my bed, "You're looking a sight better than I've seen you in days," he rumbled.

I grinned in spite of myself, "All I know is that the holes in my hide are closing despite valiant attempts to kill me."

Boromor threw back his head and laughed, "Now that's the spirit of a hunter and a fighter! We'll need plenty of that in this pack, to be sure."

I shrugged, "I am at the pack's command," I said honestly, and then sobered, "Eponis was mumbling something about bad news mixed with good…?"

The older Nord nodded, sobering as well, "Oh, aye, there's good news, but there's also ill." He looked down at his hands a moment, then sighed and looked back up into my eyes, "I'm sorry, Taima Shadow. After we all were gathered here, and after we had agreed to form a true pack, the first thing we did was head to your cabin to retrieve some of your things, knowing that you'd need them. But…we were already too late." His gaze drifted downward again, and I felt my throat tighten. I knew what was coming… "The colonists put the torch to your house, Taima. By the time we got there, the blaze had almost burned itself out…we managed to scavenge your sword and your bow, and some pieces of armor made of good steel, but the rest…" he shrugged a single broad shoulder, "It's just ashes now."

I swallowed hard, and tried to say lightly, "What are possessions? Only things that tie you to one place. I'm a hunter, a wanderer; I'm tied to nothing."

"Even wolves have their dens," Boromor rumbled.

I nodded, reluctant to admit this, head turned to my chest. I blinked back a tear, "It's so hard to believe that it's all gone…what's going to happen to me now?"

"The pack'll take care of you. Never doubt that."

I snorted, "I don't want to be burden to anyone."

Boromor waved it off, his eyes gleaming, "You won't be, and that's where the good news comes in." I looked into his face, puzzled once again, and saw laughter dancing in his eyes. "Let's review. We're a formal pack now, with Adian Thunder as our leader. We don't have a female leader yet, in case you were wondering—it was a unanimous decision among the females to wait until you were well enough to compete if you wanted to."

I raised an eyebrow, "Isn't the female leader the mate of the male leader?"

"In theory, yes. But there's never been a pack like this before, so we can do things our way. There are…unwritten laws, things we all know, such as the way a male leader is chosen, but nothing's set in stone yet." He shrugged, "In any case, we'll cross that bridge when we get to it. Continuing: up until now, we've been scattered all over the island, from those of us deep in the wilds who are completely self-sufficient, to those like you, who are secluded, but do need supplies from the colony or the fort, to those who have found a way to live _inside_ the fort or the colony." He paused a moment there, shaking his head, "I've never understood how or why they did it, but that's beside the point.

"However, when we were still the loose pack, we met here, in this Gathering Place. Now that we are a true pack, it felt only natural to make this place our headquarters, if that is the word for it. Do you see where I'm going with this?" I was starting to get an idea, and so I nodded slowly, but let Boromor continue, "Well, we said, if we were going to have our headquarters here, and if we were going to be a true pack in every sense of the word, then it made sense that we should live here as well. But we couldn't camp out in the open, and so…Listen. Hear the hammers and the saws? Feel the magic pulsing in the mountain? You're hearing and feeling the construction of the very first and only town of werewolves. Or collection of dens or whatever they want to call it. Fact remains, it's still a town."

Though I had guessed it might have been something like that, I was still stunned. "A town of werewolves…all of us living together, working together…" I mused. "It's incredible, Boromor." A thought occurred to me, and I asked, "How're some of the older ones, like you, who are used to living alone, taking all of this? Surely they can't be happy that they're going to be living in a basic city…"

"I can only speak for myself, but this town…it's not going to be like the normal towns. Everyone here understands the dream of the blood moon, and of the joy of the hunt and the kill. That alone will make it an honor to be here, to be completely surrounded by my own species for once in my life. I'll have someone to hunt with, someone to share a mug of good mead with, someone to look out for me when I get too old or too ill to move…We Nords are a clannish lot. What is a pack but a clan of werewolves?"

I nodded agreement, then my heart sank, "Isn't it illegal to form settlements like the one you're proposing without the approval of the district governor? At least, that's what I _thought_ I heard when I was still in Morrowind…"

He grinned, "Course it is. But it's already been taken care of. You miss a lot when you're unconscious for a little over a week…"

"I've been unconscious for a little over a week?" I cut him off, staring at his in disbelief.

He nodded, "Aye, and it's a good thing you stayed still in your sleep, or you could have torn the wounds open and the healing would have taken even longer."

I swallowed hard, and said in a horrified voice, "That means that I haven't been able to make a kill for a little over a week."

He nodded again, "That's right. And every morning we had to pour a nasty potion down your throat just to get you back where you were before you changed, health-wise. That's one of the reasons it took so long, I think."

I shuddered, and let it go at that. "Anyways…tell me how it's 'been taken care of.'"

"Simple enough, really. Adian used to be a Skaal warrior, until he was kicked out for being a werewolf and all that. But he maintained a friendship of sorts with their shaman, Korst Wind-Eye. Five, six days ago, he headed to the Skaal village and chatted with said shaman, explaining what he wanted and why…to quote him, 'Most of us werewolves aren't the insane lunatics or the devoutly faithful of the Lord of the Hunt that you know. Most of us just want a chance to live out our lives in peace. We don't want to have to worry that we'll be hunted down like dogs or burned in our homes. We just want to be left alone, with our own kin. That's all we ask from you; give us this territory, and leave us to our business, and we'll leave you to yours.'

"Well, Korst Wind-Eye was convinced, and headed south to talk with the Duke of Morrowind. He returned just yesterday with the news that the Duke had given us the go-ahead. And today, Adian was planning to speak with the rest of the Skaal through Wind-Eye, asking them not to kill any werewolves; we'll take care of punishing our own now." He shrugged, "Apparently, that was the deal the Duke offered; we'll get our land and our building permit, if we keep tabs on the rouges."

"We do that anyways! Or at least, _I_ do."

Boromor grinned, "I know. But the Duke sure didn't. He's probably congratulating himself on a brilliant bargain." He stretched, and patted my good leg through the furs, "I'll leave you be now. You get some more rest, and maybe in a few days, when you can stand, I'll show you the town."

"Wait, quick question; what the _hell_ are they doing inside the mountains?"

"Watch-towers, one in each of the four guardian mountains. They're hollowing out a big staircase, with a little room and ledge midway up, for guards and look-outs." With that, Boromor stood, his bones creaking, stretched as much as he could in the small cavern, and took his leave, momentarily blocking out the light from the entrance shaft. Behind him, I fell back onto the furs, staring up at the rock ceiling.

A town of werewolves, a true pack. Never again would I have to make excuses why I slept all morning, why I got my business done before nine at night, why I liked to spend my nights in solitude. Never again would I have to turn down an invitation to a feast or a party. Never again would I have to worry that I'd make a mistake and be discovered. Never again would I need to hide the side of me that exulted in the power of the hunt and the kill, who sang to the moon, who praised Hircine the Lord of the Hunt. I would be around my species-kin, and I would be home. A smile curved my lips, and I drifted off to sleep, and dreamed of standing on one of the mountains, gazing down at the town of the werewolves, then throwing back my head and howling victory to the moons and the stars.


	7. Chapter 7

**WARNING: VERY GORY/DISTRUBING!**

* * *

_Hunger. _I opened my eyes on a dark world, and felt my jaws part in a snarl. Food. I needed food. I drew in a long breath, scenting the air. Where was the prey? Close…no. I struggled out of the skins of wolves and bears, snarling and snapping at them in my annoyance. No food here, just the down and hair of dead prey. Where was I? I turned, almost completely hunched over in the small cavern, looking around. Was I trapped…No…I felt the cold night breeze caress my fur, and I whirled towards it, seeking the exit. I surged through the small opening, desperate to be out in the open.

The sky above was heavy with snow clouds, promising a harder hunt. I must be quick, then, and make my kill before the snow blinded me. I took several steps into the open area, head thrown back, scenting the wind. There! The sweet smell of flesh and warm blood, many, many two-leggers to the north, not a mile away. Tonight, I would feast well. I fell to all fours, trotting towards the scent of warm blood, my heart already praising the Lord Hunter for this hunt.

It didn't take long to reach the source of the scent, but when I did, my heart fell. They were behind a strange barrier of rocks and ice, not like a regular wall, but not like the random scattering of boulders over the landscape. But holding them at bay were a great number of my kind, their muzzles wet with blood, their throats echoing with their snarls as they prevented the two-leggers from leaving.

I hesitated, noting that many of the other werewolves were huge males, stronger than I was; I owed them my submission. But I was hungry, and they had already gorged themselves, if the blood on their muzzles and claws was any indication. What could they want with these few, besides to toy with them? I was hungry, and I would have my fill, huge males or no huge males.

And so I entered into the barrier of ice and rock, hackles high, a snarl on my jaws directed to the males who surrounded the prey. To my astonishment, they lowered their heads in submission, not challenging me as I walked forward, to the first of the prey they held captive. I couldn't help but bury my muzzle into the fur atop its head, breathing in deeply.

It was a female, a strong female, with the scent of ice and mead and war around her…and the smell of fear. She _feared_ me. I smiled, then drew my head back from its fur, walking around to face it full on. Its hands were bound in front of her, and so were its ankles. It couldn't fight even if it wanted to…but it didn't want to; it was too afraid, and knew that even if it could flee, I would hunt it down…_Prey…_

Perhaps I would have been content with just that death, if one of the males hadn't snarled at another of the prisoners, reminding me that there were others, none of whom the males wanted. I stepped forward eagerly, and gutted open the two-legger who had tried to move out of the circle of werewolves. And then I saw movement out of the corner of my eye, and turned towards yet another two-legger with the thought of a hunter foremost in my mind: _Kill._

From there on, I lost myself in the bloody, savage dance of hunter and hunted, rejoicing in the ease and power of my kills. Part of me hated the fact that the kills were so easy, like slaughtering tame guar, but even if I had wanted to heed that part, I wouldn't have. The allure of blood and death was too strong, my need for satisfaction too overpowering. I killed freely, again and again, until all I knew was the hot smell of blood and the feel of life ending and the sound of my own savage growls and snarls.

_What the hell am I DOING!_ The thought was sudden, and my consciousness flooded back to me. I looked over at the last of the prisoners, a terrified Redguard, and swallowed hard, not wanting to look behind me. But look I did, at the snow that was crimson with blood and the nine bodies in a jagged line and the bright eyes of the male werewolves, who approved of what I did.

Never before had I descended into the mindlessness of bloodlust; I had always known who I was, what I was doing, and why. I had never killed nine innocent men and mer in a single night, much less a single hour. At least, until tonight. What horrified me was not the fact that I did it, but the fact that I _loved_ it, and given the opportunity, would do it again. I saw now the lure of the life that the rogue werewolves must lead, the addictiveness of true bloodlust; taking not just a single kill a night, but as many as possible, to go on a bloody rampage…

All these realizations took but a heartbeat, and then I turned on my tail and fled from Hrothmund's Bane, forcing myself to sprint despite the throbbing pain still in my shoulder and flank. _I love the bloodlust, I love to kill. I'm dangerous, I'll be a danger to the pack, they'll have to kill me, I won't let them I'll kill myself first yes tonight now…_My thoughts were frantic as I bolted north, limping on my bad legs, tail between my legs, ears flat against my scalp. _How to kill a werewolf, how to commit suicide jump off a cliff no too risky might survive I can swim after all. Fight a plague bear or a Riekling no I'm too strong, I kill them all the time with no problems. Show myself to the Skaal and let them kill me NO I'm not going through that again besides Thunder might still be there don't want to put him in danger._

Behind me, I heard the silvery notes of my species-kin lance through the air, and I shivered, _They're going to come after me now kill me for showing true bloodlust maybe I should give myself up to them no don't want them to live with the guilt of executing me, must find a way to avoid them…so cold so cold this far north the cold! Wait till morning let myself freeze good as way as any foolproof if I don't fight it I won't fight it I deserve death…_

Even as those thoughts were racing through my mind, I was turning northwest, scrambling over boulders of ice and stone, weaving around those I could not climb, doing my best to make my trail as elusive as possible. _Third aspect of the hunter, his guile, outsmart your hunters…Over rocks, squeeze between monoliths, lose the scent, lose yourself… _I bruised my still-healing ribs as I wiggled between two of the monoliths, then paused.

I could scent the promised snow heavy in the air, could feel the cold wind cut through my fur. This would be a blizzard of massive proportions. What better to cover my tracks, and ultimately to end my life? In fact…a small, shallow cave hunkered just behind me, hidden by the monoliths, like a hand had taken a scoop out of the mountain side. Wait…there were no mountains with sides this high and this steep this far north-west; there was the glacier…but it had collapsed a year ago, after the Bloodmoon Prophesy had been fulfilled and the Hunter banished from this plain, denied full power…there was no doubt in _my_ mind that he had some power here, on the island that was his hunting grounds, but not enough to walk in true form.

I craned my head back, and I squinted up through the softly swirling snow, trying to find the top of the sheer cliffs. _Perhaps…only the center collapsed, where the Hunting Grounds were…?_ I didn't know either way, nor did I care much. Some of us had felt compelled to work with Hircine's Hounds, the werewolves who were fervently faithful, but I had not been one of them. Good thing, too, for most of the Hounds had been killed during or at the end of the Prophesy by one warrior or another. And besides, it was _they_ who caused the most trouble to the normal people, and _they_ who were hunted close to extinction. The rest of us kept our heads down and out of sight, and so saved our own skins; what the colonists and the Skaal warriors didn't know wouldn't hurt them.

Hunt Lord, had I shattered that philosophy into tiny pieces with insisting that we help find Hethan! Perhaps it wasn't meant to be, I mused as I huddled down in the small cave. Perhaps we weren't meant to reveal ourselves to the normal people, weren't meant to be a true pack yet, weren't meant to form the town of Thunder's dreams. I sniffed back a tear, curling up tight next to the rock, my tail flicking up to cover my nose. And if that was the case, then I was better off dead then living on the mercy of Eponis White-heart or Irwaen Ebony or even Adian Thunder. I closed my eyes, sheltered against the worst of the wind and the worst of the cold by rocks and fur, and fell into a kind of slumber, waiting for morning.

* * *

"_What are you doing here? Are you one of mine…Yes, yes you are. I can scent it on you. But you are not one of _mine_…but then, there are so few of them now."_ A deep sigh echoed through my mind before the strong voice continued, _"But still I ask you, what are you doing here? Surely you know that I can do nothing but speak to you…Ahh…I see…"_

I felt the voice or the presence or whatever it was shift through the thoughts in my mind, tugging at the one of my suicide. It was an odd feeling, and I felt the voice go quiet, which was even odder. _"I cannot allow this." _It—he?—finally declared. _There are too few of mine left for one to go off and kill herself! Especially for such a folly! No, don't you _**dare**_ argue with me, you insolent little pup! I don't _**care**_ what you thought, and I don't _**care**_ how 'right' you think you are! **YOU WILL OBEY ME**!"_

I whimpered at the resounding shout, and even as I cringed deeper into my hole I marveled at how the sound was able to echo in my mind. Almost in sympathy, the voice spoke softer, "_But how am I to work this…there are none of _mine_ close by to do my bidding, and I cannot summon them…hmmm…a quandary, little pup. No matter, I shall figure something out."_

For a long time, the voice was silent, and I turned my attention back to the outside world. All I could see in any direction was white, the occasional swirling of snowflakes. The blizzard was upon us; woe to any unprepared for its fury. My black pelt was thick and warm, and so for now, I was safe. But when morning came, and I lost the pelt, the snow and the cold if not the blizzard would still be heavy and strong. My survival without intervention was doubtful, just like I'd planned.

"Hell's-bells, I can't see my claws in front of me in this mess." I looked up at the growl, and peering through the snow, could just catch a glimpse of russet fur through the storm. "How're we supposed to find her? They lost her trail when the snow started, and now that we can't see…"

"Hircine alone knows," another voice growled. "But we need to find her before morning. You know the punishment if we don't…"

"From who: Thunder, Elder, or Firebrand? They'd all have our pelts stretched on their walls," the first voice drawled.

"Right. So we'll just have to do our best. Come on, I think this way's north…" The blurry russet forms vanished, and the voices faded, taken by the wind. I sighed in relief even as I laughed inwardly; what irony for them, to be so close to me, and yet to walk right by.

I yawned, stretching out as much I could, and laid my head back down, eyes sliding shut once more, tail over my nose to keep out the cold. Just before I feel back into sleep brought by the snow, I both felt and heard horns blowing…light, high trumpets of royalty and rich, mellow rams-horns of the hunt and even the deep, reverberating call of a great-horn. But then the white of the blizzard faded to black, and I knew no more.


	8. Chapter 8

Soft crackling woke me, as did the knowledge that I was warm all over, even though I could feel the snow pressing against my bare legs. I swallowed hard as the smell and feel of a small fire washed over me, and tried not to tremble as I opened my eyes. The first thing I noticed was that the snow had stopped. The second thing—besides the fire—was that sitting across from me, watching me with sharp blue eyes, was a male Nord.

His pale gold hair was pulled back from his face, tied at the base of his neck with a strip of leather. He was strongly featured, handsome even though his face was set with stern, angry lines, his mouth turned down in a scowl. He was dressed in furs, as most that lived in Solstheim were, though his were of expert make. When he saw that I was awake, he picked up a mug of some liquid from a flat stone in front of him and passed it around to me. "Drink it. All of it. And then you've got some explaining to do, Taima Shadow." Even though his voice was harsh with anger, I could hear almost musical tones in his words…I knew that voice.

"Adian Thunder?" I asked, and meekly bowed my head when he nodded, eyes still cold. I covered my hesitation and worry by taking a cautious sip of the liquid. Mead, the god's own drink, flowed down my throat, warmed by the fire, honey sweet and smooth, but very strong, warming me inside and out. I couldn't stop a satisfied noise in my throat as I drained the mug, then passed it back to the big male.

He snorted to himself as he accepted it back, storing it away before leaning back against one of the monoliths. "Glad you enjoyed it. Donated by one of the werewolves who frequent Thrisk, the mead hall," he still spoke with a bite to his words, though his anger was held in check. "Now. What the hell were you doing out here? You could have died."

I nodded, "I wanted to die."

Whatever he was expecting, that wasn't it. "You what!" he yelped, straightening. "Why! Does living in a town and pack of your own species offend you that much?"

I shook my head, "There's nothing I want more. But I can't. I'm dangerous."

Adian snorted again, "We're all dangerous, Taima. It never bothered you before. What happened?"

I swallowed, and murmured, "I've…I've got bloodlust."

"We all do, Taima," Adian said softly, his eyes puzzled. Then his expression cleared, "You think you've got kill-frenzy." When I blinked, turning my gaze up to his eyes for one moment, he elaborated, "Bloodlust that won't go away; the need, the desire, to kill every living thing in sight." I nodded at his description, and Adian shook his head, "Taima…you don't have it. One look in your eyes is enough to deny it. Besides, when you'd realized what you'd done, you fled. If you truly had kill-frenzy, you wouldn't have recognized that what you did was wrong, or if you did, you wouldn't care. I've seen it before; believe me, you don't have it."

I was stunned into speechlessness a moment at his words, then shook my head, "I wish I could believe you. But I can't. Not after what I did…" I trailed off, remembering the nine dismembered bodies and the snow stained red with blood, and found I couldn't go on.

"What you did…?" Adian Thunder prompted, pulling a common pack into his lap before rooting around in it…he pulled out a stalk of saltrice with a noise of satisfaction. He held it close to the fire, warming it, then passed it over to me. I took a tentative bite, laughing inwardly at the irony; the only thing I had eaten the day of my Silver Trial had been a stalk of saltrice….

The sweetness in my mouth seemed to loosen my tongue, for I found myself speaking before I could think, "I killed nine last night, Adian. I…I woke up and I was thinking like a wolf, and some of the other werewolves were holding them in Hrothmund's Bane and I…I killed them. Tore some of them to pieces, gutted a few…" I felt sick, now that I was speaking the details, and so I fell silent once more, swallowing the saltrice, trying to settle my stomach.

Lines that had creased Adian's forehead eased at the telling of my tale, and he shook his head, smiling slightly, "You still don't have it, Taima." When I tried to protest again, he raised up a hand, eyes firm, "Look at it this way; for eight nights you've been unconscious, unable to move. But you still changed to and from wolf form, and you still had bloodlust…and you weren't able to sate it. So one night's bloodlust carried into the next, until…tonight. When you _were_ awake and able to move. Not only did you have this night's bloodlust, but also the bloodlust from eight previous nights. Small wonder the werewolf took over your mind!"

"Oh." That…made sense, as far as the bloodlust was concerned. The full force of what Adian was saying hit me a moment later, an I sank back against the monolith. _"Oh!"_ He had been right in the first place; I didn't have kill-frenzy or whatever he called incurable bloodlust. I looked up, holding his gaze, for the first time since I saw that he was sitting across a fire from me. I smiled weakly, "I guess…I've been a bit foolish."

He laughed, "No. Just jumped to a few wrong conclusions…understandable conclusions, given the circumstances. I understand, perhaps more than you will ever know." He fell silent, gazing into the fire, watching the hypnotic flames dance over small sticks and pieces of…what the…?

I gestured to the fire, "How did you manage to get _ice_ to burn?"

Adian glanced at it, then laughed once again, "Magicka," he admitted. "I found you half dead from the cold, and knew that a fire would warm you faster than anything…but there was no fuel. So I summoned fire, if you want to call it that, or casted a very weak Fireball. Handy little spell I learned when I was still a Skaal warrior…" he trailed off, and shrugged.

"Speaking of which, how _did_ you find me? I mean, two werewolves passed within a few feet of me during the blizzard and they didn't see me, so…"

He looked up sharply, "You mean you didn't hear them? The choir of horns?"

Now that he mentioned it… "I thought I'd dreamed them," I admitted.

Adian snorted, but continued, voice soft with awe, "I was on my way back from the Skaal village when I heard the news, and so I went to search the far shores, because I was closest. It was a little after midnight when I heard them, all the way across the island. And yet I heard them as clearly as if they were but twenty feet away. The great-horns and the ram's-horns and the royal fanfare… And then all but one faded, and that was a hunting horn, a ram's-horn. I heard it winding far off, and followed the sound to this glacier. From there…it led me to you; no easy feat, for you were well hidden."

It was my turn to frown, though in thought, not in anger, "That's odd. I don't think I've ever heard of something like that happening and I can't even begin to guess how."

The male Nord shrugged one broad shoulder, "Nor I. And at first I thought that it was my imagination, but when they led me true…I don't know. And now you say that you heard the opening choir of horns, yes? I wonder if anyone else did. Perhaps Elder or one of the older werewolves could offer some insight…or I might need to go back and talk with Korst Wind-Eye again." He smiled ruefully, "I'm talking him now, ten years after the Skaal banished me for being a werewolf, then I ever did when I was growing up."

I grinned, appreciating what could well be counted as a joke, and then shifted closer to the fire, shivering slightly in the cold. Adrian looked over at me, and the last of his anger evaporated. "Here," he shrugged out of his fur-trimmed cloak, passing it around the fire to me. "That'll keep you warm enough until we get back to the Gathering Place." He grinned even as he stood, "Though perhaps it's not right to call it the Gathering Place anymore. What we're going to call the town is still up for debate…very _loud_ debate."

I laughed outright at that, standing as well, "Don't tell me, let me guess; everyone has a different idea of what to call it, and they explain their reasoning to everyone else at full voice." When he nodded, a puzzled crease touching his forehead, I grinned, "I could just hear the pack arguing when I woke up in the cave yesterday." _Hircine, only yesterday? So much has happened since then…_I shook my head to myself, and glanced down at my bare feet, "Oh, this is going to be a pleasant journey…" I muttered.

Adian followed my gaze downward and winced with me, "No kidding. If I had a pair of boots remotely close to your size, I'd let you borrow them, but…" he trailed off, then brightened, "Wait here. I'll be back in a little while, with luck." With that he wiggled through the two monoliths and began trotting across the landscape, and was soon lost to the vast whiteness of new snow dumped by the blizzard. There was little for me to do but sit down and stare at the fire, waiting for him to return. Patience — ironically enough — came easily to werewolves, probably another aspect of the hunter, one that we usually ignored.

In an hour or so he was back, a smug smile on his face and a dead Bristleback across his shoulders. "You're not going to like this," he called over as he slung down the dead boar to one side of the fire, moving close to me. Pulling a small knife from his belt, he began to hack off strips of the Bristleback's tough hide, "I'm not even sure where I learned it; logic says the Skaal, but I keep wanting to say that Boromor Elder taught me. Anyways, one of the very few good uses for Bristleback leather, besides tying things together, is for resistance against frost…"

"You're right," I interrupted, "I _don't_ like the sound of this."

"Too bad," he said in a cheerful tone, laying one of the strips of hide over my ankle.

"Adian, my feet are going to smell like Tusked Bristlebacks for months!"

As he began to wind the leather over my foot, he asked, "Would you rather they smelled like Bristlebacks for months or froze off?"

I snorted, but didn't protest as he bandaged my foot in very raw Bristleback leather. "I'll do the other," I said hastily as he made to begin with the other foot.

Adian shook his head, eyes still on his task, "I can do it better, faster, and no doubt neater than you can. Trust me." In a moment, he had finished, and sank back on his haunches to survey his work with satisfaction, "That'll hold until we reach the Gathering Place," he muttered, then offered a hand to help me stand up.

I made a face as I let him pull me to my feet, still staring at the unlikely bandages. Then I sighed, "Well, if something decides to gnaw on my feet, you can pay the healer to fix them up."

A smile tugged at his lips, though his voice was tinged with mock-pain as he said, "So glad that you have so much confidence in the pack to protect you."

"It's the pack I'm worried about. You know how much some of those elder werewolves love the taste of Bristleback jerky." I retorted, taking a few test steps forward to get used to the feel of still-raw hide wrapped around my feet. At least I couldn't feel the snow and ice underfoot, a small blessing. "But that reminds me; all my clothing burned with my cabin…"

"Talk to one of the females," he said, distracted as he helped me wiggle between the monoliths, "I think Eponis White-Heart has a house near the fort…she might be willing to lend you something."

"And how do you expect me to pay her back?" I demanded, stride extending to match his own long steps.

Adian was silent for a long time, then shrugged, "I wouldn't worry too much about it. Once we figure out who's going to do what in the town, you two can figure out a trade of some kind, I'm sure."

"Once we figure out who's going to do what," I repeated flatly. "And it _has_ occurred to you that I have no skills that would be useful in an actual town?"

Adian stopped dead in his track and spun to stare at me, his temper flaring again, "Who told you that?" He demanded, holding a hand up to forestall my arguments, "No, I don't want to know. Taima Shadow, you are the _last_ werewolf I'd accuse of having no skills. Who was it that organized us less than a fortnight ago? Whose plan was it that killed the necromancer? Yes, Flyer killed him; I thought you knew.

"And who has _always_ kept tabs on the rogue werewolves, just because it was the right thing to do? And do you remember the time a very brave but very young black werewolf held a powerful rogue at bay, from dusk until dawn, just to keep him from Fort Frostmoth, whose walls had been breeched?" His eyes softened as he shook his head, "I will never forget that time, the first time I saw you. Pelt bloodied, panting hard from exhaustion, but eyes triumphant, the rogue sprawled before you, knocked out, and behind you, the fort silhouetted in the gray dawn…" He gave a crooked smile, "And then, seeing all of us males converge towards you, you turned on your tail and fled."

The memory was a vivid one for me, but I'd never heard it from Adian Thunder's point of view. It had happened much as he said; I was young, had only been a werewolf for a year, but that year was enough to give me some experience of the world I now lived in, and what I had seen had made me…arrogant is the best word, I suppose. I had a taste of power and immortality in my mouth, and I forgot that I was weaker than many. When I saw the werewolf loping towards the colony…I thought it would be easy to hold him off, to stop him from getting inside the breech.

It hadn't been. But I managed. And in the process, had learned that I was _not_ a god. And so in that cool gray dawn, when I got my first glimpse of what would become my pack, all I could think of was the fight I had just come from and the worry that I'd have to fight all those big males, too. So I did what was the logical thing at the time: I fled and prayed that they wouldn't follow me. I didn't know that they were 'good' werewolves, like me, but later, when I encountered them again, I learned otherwise.

I shook my head roughly to clear the memories, and pointed out, "Everything that you just mentioned has revolved around just one job: freelance adventurer. In case you haven't noticed, adventurers don't do very well in normal towns, where they have to have a normal job."

"Who are we to say what the gods call normal?" Adian asked, his voice not carrying beyond my own ears, "I know that to Hircine the Hunter, _we_ are the ones who are normal, not those living in the forts and cities." He sighed, "And you keep forgetting that because we are not 'normal,' neither will our town be. Besides," and here his eyes gleamed with an unidentifiable emotion, "who ever said you _had_ to run a tavern or shop? Think about it."

With that cryptic statement, he fell silent, concentrating on the miles before us. He only spoke to tell me to stop while he scouted ahead, and even then used as few words as possible. It seemed as though he meant it when he said he wanted me to think about it…I sighed and sank onto a rock during one of his bouts of scouting the trail ahead, using a stick to trace patterns in the snow. What did he mean; I didn't _have_ to run a tavern or shop? That was all there was in cities, right? Shops selling everything from armor to books, pawnbrokers, inns, and of course, bars and taverns. There were plenty of jobs there, I mused, but I knew better than anyone that I _really_ didn't have the skills to sell things, nor to make or to find anything worth selling…

Well, no, that wasn't quite right: the fact that all there was in cities were shops and taverns. There were guards, too, who either walked the streets, breaking up fights, or stood atop the walls in case of attack. Did Adian mean for me to be a guard? I smiled at the thought, and then discarded it; it would be better than being a shopkeeper, but not by much. What else?

Nobles, yes, nobles to spare in any town. Commoners who did what needed doing. I blanched at the thought of either of them, turning my thoughts back to jobs in normal cities. Priests, either with the Temple of the Tribunal or with the Imperial Cult. I had to smile at that thought; werewolves, as priests in either of those? The stars were more likely to shine purple in a green sky. But then again, if we were to establish a shrine to Hircine…I shook my head; no, that would be the job of the few of Hircine's Hounds still alive.

So what did that leave? I felt as though I was missing something major, that should have been obvious to me. Perhaps…transportation services? Surely, we would need to contact a shipmaster to bring us supplies from the outside world; even Adian couldn't believe that we could be self-sufficient, not on this island. Well, I amended, we could, but it wouldn't be a _nice_ existence, without the luxuries we had lived without for years.

But why _shouldn't_ we have Cyrodiilic brandy for a hundred drakes, not the two hundred it was at the fort, or exclusive potions the likes of which I had once seen in an alchemist's shop in Vivec, or even clothing made of silk and jewelry with sapphires and diamonds? Raven Rock had access to such things, but through the cargo of ships. The fort, housing warriors, usually stocked that which they'd need, nothing more, and the Skaal village…well, the Skaal were barbarians. They preferred to live as they had for centuries.

But as for us, well, though we were werewolves, most of us had once enjoyed at least one of those luxuries; it had been the brandy for me. After we were cast out, we had to sacrifice those things…now that we would have our own town, why shouldn't we be allowed to have them back again?

I snarled to myself, and snapped my stick in half. This was _not_ what I was supposed to be thinking about! I was _supposed _to be trying to figure out what skills I had that would be worthwhile to a town of werewolves, and what I could do in said town to pay off my debts, at the very least.

I was still trying to remember what obvious job there was in various towns when Adian returned, a smile on his face and a half-dozen gray wolf pelts hanging over his shoulder, dangling down his back. "Excellent hunting this far north," he said by way of greeting, settling the pelts more securely over his shoulders, "I did hate to have to kill so many of the wolves, though…magnificent creatures; they might as well be our lesser cousins or our distant ancestors. But you can't fight, not in your condition, and I didn't want to take any chances. Come on, it's just two or three more miles to the Gathering Place…"

I nodded, and stood up from my rock, tossing the broken pieces of the stick away before falling into step behind the bigger Nord male. He was quiet as he led me back, eyes on the distant horizon, watching for the four mountains that surrounded and protected our Gathering Place. It was galling for me, a strong fighter, who knew every inch of this island like my own home, to be led like an errant pack-guar.

True, I wasn't in fighting condition by a long league, and I didn't even have a weapon, but I still had pride. Not a lot of pride, seeing as I was wearing nothing but a cloak several sizes too big and strips of Bristleback leather for shoes, but the thought was still there. And so was the knowledge that I had no choice, and so I pressed my lips together and followed Adian with as much dignity as I could muster. But then we were walking up to the arched boulders that formed the entrance to the Gathering Place, and I was forced to stop and stare.

The valley had been fairly large, with an exit river cutting through it on its way to the sea, the ground level, treeless, as most places this far north were. And, when I had last seen in several days ago, empty of all but the low flat stone. Now, though, werewolves in their 'normal' forms clustered around and swarmed over many skeletons of buildings, the basic framework and even some walls already built. Often heated debates broke out, half the time settled by fists, half the time by a shout from someone not involved in the argument.

Closest to the crude arch of boulders that served us as an entrance was a building with the look of a headquarters, two stories tall and already half completed. Other buildings with a similar look stretched in two vague parallel lines until they reached the boulder, where a square had formed around it…at least, I could only _assume_ it was a square. If I squinted, it looked more like an oval…but that was beside the point.

Closest to the base of the largest mountain was a long building, two stories high again, and it was this building that had the most werewolves around it, and thus looked to be the closest to completion. One side of the valley was still 'open,' though, the section closest to the river's exit. That is to say, there weren't any buildings going up…but there was activity.

A group of a ten or so werewolves sawed huge pine trunks into planks, stacking them into neat piles for the builders to easily access. Of those, two or three werewolves were fashioning things from large sections of logs, their finished products off to one side; tables and stools and chairs and even one bed with scrollwork on the headboard and the feet.

"Hircine bless…" I murmured in amazement; it was one thing to be told that we were creating a town, another to actually see it half-completed.

Adian smiled, and pointed to a small arching doorway in the side of a mountain, "Look there." I did as he requested, and was rewarded by the sight of a mage walking out, levitated boulders twice his size floating after him. He directed them towards one of the small gaps between the four mountains, piling them up at the base. "For walls, after we complete the main town," Adian explained, then nodded up at the mountain again, "And look there, see the ledge partway up the mountain? That's where the guard will stand…I hope that they'll make the ledge go all the way round the mountain top, so that he or she can look in all directions. The other three mountains will have lookout posts just like it, and the main gates will be guarded day and night by one of our people…"

The enthusiasm in Adian's voice lifted my spirits as we walked through the archway; he really did love this place. This town or city or whatever was his dream, and he was as proud as a captain with his first ship. He pointed out the outdoor kitchens to me, though I would have guessed their location on my own, by virtue of smell and the three werewolves in aprons happily arguing over how best to cook a Horker. Life sounded like it was falling into a pattern here…cooperation, if cheerfully argumentative cooperation, penetrated all aspects of life. It reminded me of the few times I had been in Thrisk, the mead hall…Which was a good thing; it made me feel right at home.

Adian led me over to one of the half-completed buildings set back from the main street — at least, so I assumed the two parallel rows of buildings indicated the main street — and called up to one of the werewolves in the scaffolding, "Where has Eponis White-Heart gotten to?"

In response she pointed to the sheltered base of another mountain, the same one that had the small cave. Now, though, there was a fully constructed building on that site, built flush against the mountain. "Infirmary," Adian explained when he saw that I was staring, "We thought it best to finish it first. It's not quite done on the interior yet, but the walls are up and it's sectioned into rooms, so it won't be long."

"Adian Thunder!" a tall Nord female with fiery hair stalked over, scowling, "The werewolves working on the bunkhouse want to recruit those working on the tavern so that the bunkhouse gets done faster…"

Adian groaned, rolling his eyes. Turning to me, he nodded to the infirmary, "Go talk to Eponis; I think you know about what. I've got this to deal with…"

I nodded, and added to the Nord female, "Nice to see you again, Firebrand."

Her face lit up, "It's Arndis in this form," she corrected, but smiled, "Still, how did you…?"

I grinned, "Just a hunch." With that, I turned and walked towards the infirmary, cloak still tight around my shoulders, feet still wrapped in Tusked Bristleback leather. Behind me, I could just hear Arndis Firebrand and Adian Thunder whisper together before moving off to take care of whatever it was that required Adian's attention. I walked up to the infirmary, staring at the pine door so new it seemed to still bleed sap for a long moment before shoving the door open.


	9. Chapter 9

Inside the smell of pine wood was almost as strong as it was in a true forest; it wasn't overpowering, but rather a _clean_ scent, healing in and of itself. The first room that I walked into was vast, what looked to be half of the entire building, empty for now. But I could imagine it, drawing on my experiences with infirmaries of this kind. This first room would be a waiting room, with benches along the walls and a scattering of chairs. Beyond the separating wall, there would be several private rooms for healers and patients, with more rooms on the next floor for long-term illnesses and injuries…like mine.

Standing in the doorway leading into the second part of the building was the Redguard I knew as Eponis White-heart, looking over her new domain with a small smile. She gave a half-turn to look over the main room, and gasped when she saw me standing on the threshold of the door, shivering in Adian's cloak, shifting my weight from side to side to dislodge snowballs that had been worked their way into the Bristleback leather. "Taima Shadow, out of those wet things! You're going to catch your death of cold!"

I grimaced as I unclasped the cloak from around my neck, letting it drop to the smooth wood floor. Just because we were inside didn't mean that it was warm. I shifted my weight to one leg and reached down to begin unwinding the leather from my feet, hopping on one foot to keep my balance.

"Oh for the love of the hunt, let me!" Eponis snapped, worry making her voice sharp. I braced myself against the wall, and extended one leg, allowing Eponis free access to the leather bindings. She peeled them off my feet, muttering under her breath as she did so about foolish werewolves who thought they were immortal. As soon as both bindings lay on the floor next to the cloak, she pointed me upstairs, ordering me into the first room on the right.

Climbing the un-sanded stairs proved to be an experience comparable to the one I just went through, and I was glad to open the door into the room in question. It looked to be the only furnished one, though that wasn't saying much. The low bed was piled high with wolf pelts, and smelled like the rooms downstairs: of fresh pine wood. Just below the window that looked out over the town was a small stand holding a chipped pitcher and basin, the former holding water I knew would be icy. There was another small table nearer to the bed, and a large wardrobe across the room. Not a bad place to recover in, when all was said and done.

I collapsed onto the bed, not wanting to move another step until I was better. A knock sounded from the door as I stared up at the ceiling, and just as I looked over, Eponis entered, a basin balanced on her hip, steam arising from the contents within. She shook her head as she made her way over to the bedside, placing the basin on the small table near the bed.

Muttering under her breath about follies, she washed my feet in the hot water, banishing the last tinges of the frost and snow. As she wrapped clean, warmed bandages around my feet – a precaution, she loftily declared – I was reminded of something. "Eponis…do you have a spare set of clothes I could barrow?" I gestured downward to my fraying undergarments, "I look like a Berserker."

That earned a small grin, and she nodded, "The hunters brought all of my things from my home in the colony today; they might be a bit tight on you, though…Arndis Firebrand's things would fit better."

"Does she have a spare set? I don't want to take the clothes off her back…"

Eponis smiled, "Of course. She gets most of her things from the smugglers she kills…she'd got upwards of twenty shirts and pants, all lined in fur. I'll go see if she can loan you some." With that she stood and collected the basin, closing the door tight behind her.

I sighed to myself as I returned my gaze up to the ceiling, and then closed my eyes. Knowing Arndis Firebrand, the simple task of fetching clothing could take hours, depending on what she needed to finish up before she could attend to this. I might as well rest now, while I had a chance, in the first real bed I'd been in for well over a week.

I don't know when I drifted off to sleep, or how long I slept, for I did not dream. I was awakened by the slam of my room door, and I shoved myself up, smiling when I saw that it was indeed Arndis Firebrand, her arms piled high with shirts and pants. Seeing that I was awake, she dropped the heap of clothing on my bed and began to sort through it, tossing shirts to me as she found them.

"This one should fit, and that one…not sure about this one, try it and give it back if it's too small…oh, look at this one, it's trimmed in ermine…" she held the shirt up to admire it for a moment, then threw it on the growing pile on my chest. "Made me look hideous, keep it or burn it, I don't care. Hmm…these are all too small…I think this one would be too big on you, but you're welcome to it. Pants…do you have pretty long legs?" She glanced down, then shrugged, "I guess they'd fit, might be a bit long, but better long than short, yes?" Without waiting for an answer, she began to throw pairs of pants at me as well.

I couldn't help it; I threw back my head and laughed, burying one hand in the pile of clothing to keep it from falling off. "Arndis! I think that's enough! I'll be fine, really!"

"Are you sure?" She asked, worried. "Days and nights are getting colder…wouldn't want you to freeze because you were too stubborn to accept a little help…"

I snorted, "Arndis, I'll be fine. Trust me."

"Now, where have I heard that before?" Arndis raised a finger to her chin in mock thought. "That's right, before you attacked that rouge, and just after you caught Swamp Fever—as Ebony put it, 'I didn't know you could throw up like that as a werewolf!'—and when you…"

I cut her off with a gesture, feeling the heat rise into my face, "You don't need to count every time I was wrong, Arndis."

"But it's so much fun." She sighed, "In any case, I'd better get back outside before the werewolves start fighting again." Turning on her heel, she left me with the stack of clothes atop my chest. I lost my battle not to laugh, and did so with abandon, head thrown back, one hand holding the mountain of clothes so they didn't spill onto the floor.

* * *

The rest of that day and that night passed quietly, with little to disturb me. The change came and went without incident, the pack scattering to the far ends of the island, each werewolf seeking out their own special hunting grounds.

As per Eponis' orders, I stayed near the Gathering Place, dispatching a Reikling Raider who thought that a limp equaled weakness. The bloodlust sated, I spent the night in quiet contemplation, listening to the calls of my species-kin, wanting so much to join them…But White-Heart had put her foot down, and said that after I had made my kill, I was to come straight back to the clearing to wait out the night: no running, no hunting, and no fighting.

I was bored stiff, but Eponis White-Heart had reassured me that the less I moved the leg and the shoulder, the faster the wounds would heal. And the faster the wounds healed, the sooner I could be running all over Solstheim…So I stayed near the Gathering Place, watching the constellations turn around the North Star, greeting the werewolves who stopped by to keep me company.

By seven in the morning, the pack was wandering into the Gathering Place, yawning from their long night. Most made their way to the conglomerate of bedrolls on one side of the clearing, seeking out their beds. Some dragged dead Bristlebacks and Horkers over to the fire pits, others dropped supplies off at their worksites before lying down, asleep on their feet. Those that passed me, resting on the step leading into the infirmary, called their "good-mornings," to me, not expecting an answer as they focused on one thing; getting into bed for a few hours sleep before they got back to work on our town.

"Taima Shadow?" I smiled, looking up as the rich voice of the leader of the pack sounded in front of me. "Do you have a moment? We need to discuss something…if you'd rather rest, of course…"

I shrugged, "I've been napping on and off all night; I'm fine. What do you need?"

He gestured, and six werewolves appeared, three on either side of him. I recognized Boromor, standing to Adian's right, but the other five were unfamiliar. _These must be the Council that Eponis was talking about…_None of them were very old by most standards, but in werewolf terms, when death by old age or the consequences thereof could come as early as thirty…they were ancient. "Taima, this is Svetlana, Vanya, and Jelena," Adian indicated the three females to his left, who were studying me with as much curiosity as I was studying them, "And here is Zev, Calo, and Boromor you already know."

The big Nord in question winked at me, grinning. The graceful white-blond named Svetlana stepped forward, extending a hand in greeting, "It is a pleasure to meet you, Taima Shadow. Among the pack, there is much said about you."

"Little good, I'm sure," time to rest during the night or no time to rest during the night, I was still unused to being awake this early, and the desire for sleep made my tongue sharp. "All about how I managed to endanger myself and the rest of the pack with me, how I almost got myself killed numerous times…"

Svetlana shook her head, "None of the sort. More along the lines of your courage, your love for our species and our kin, and your knowledge of the island and all its inhabitants, from the Reiklings to the Imperials."

"Blind courage, perhaps," I argued, "and a scout has better knowledge of the landscape; just ask Pegasai Ranger. As for my love of my pack…it's nothing any werewolf doesn't feel."

"I think I see what you mean, Adian," one of the males—Zev, I think—commented, a wiry smile on his face.

"What?" I asked, looking from face to face. The only answer I was given were growing smiles on their faces. "What?" I repeated, desperate now to know what Adian had said about me.

The male in question shook his head, and took a seat on the step next to me, the Council finding spots to crouch or sit nearby. "Taima, why didn't you say you'd been in the Imperial Legion?"

It took me a few moments to realize what he was talking about, and a few more to remember. I couldn't stop an embarrassed flush from rising into my cheeks as I shrugged, "That was…Hircine, three years ago now. When I came to Morrowind, I was an outlander, a foreigner, greeted with cool hostility. I joined because…because the Legion welcomed me and my skill with a blade. Suddenly, I wasn't so alone; I had friends and a place to stay in almost any town and I was _paid_. The better I was with a sword and the more missions I did, the more I was respected and the more drakes I was given."

"And the higher you were promoted," Boromor prompted, his voice soft.

"Yes," I admitted, leaving it at that.

"You rose to the rank of Knight Errant, didn't you?" Vanya asked, her question rhetorical.

I nodded, amazed in spite of myself, "Yes. How did you…?"

"I used to be in the Legion as well, and there are still people in it who owe me favors. The captain at Fort Frostmoth told me. You were transferred up here…?"

"To help the Captain," I nodded, "I reported in, did an assignment or two, then he gave me a few days off, which I used to explore some of the burrows of the island, and got savaged by a werewolf." I shrugged, not wanting to comment more on the subject. It was still painful to talk about my choice – need, really – to distance myself from the Legion.

If Adian noticed my discomfort, he chose to ignore it, continuing on, "Do you have any experience organizing guards and patrols, hearing out reports, that kind of thing?"

I nodded, puzzled, "Yes, that's why they sent me up here; General Darius, my commanding officer, recommended me, saying I had a commander's mind. I used to help him with the reports for Fort Darius, the Legion fort in Gnisis, then later did the same for Fort Frostmoth up here." As Adian nodded, I continued, "But that was years and years ago, before I became a werewolf. Why bring it up now?"

Adian clapped me on my good shoulder, grinning, "Knight Errant Taima…how does being Knight _Protector_ of this little town sound to you?"

My jaw dropped away from my face. Knight Protectors were in charge of the various forts all over Morrowind, and everyone – even the natives – listened to them on matters of defense. "But I…I'm not even a Knight Bachelor! You can't promote me _two_ ranks all at once!"

"Watch us," Boromor retorted.

Vanya agreed, "You're higher ranked than I am; I used to be a Champion. And so long as you've got the recommendations and the qualifications for being a Knight Protector…"

Svetlana added, "Plus you've got the experience, more than anyone else can say in this pack. We _need_ someone who can organize our guards and our patrols, and you're the best one for the job."

"Please," Zev rolled his eyes as I opened my mouth to protest, "Don't try to argue the points; you know we're right." He looked to be the youngest on the Council, though that wasn't saying too much; his dark hair already shot with silver threads, "If you want proof, look at what you just did! Organized the entire pack into search parties after thinking about it for _how_ long? Five, ten minutes, maybe? Flyer said that it was your plan to attack the necromancer and retrieve Hethan from behind. _And_ you were the one who led the colonists to us."

"Then I was the one who was careless and led the colonists right to my home!" I snapped, "I was the one who the pack needed to _rescue_ from a Silver Trial!"

"Rescue? True, but it was just payment for a debt or two," Calo remarked idly, testing the edge of his axe. "Nothing you wouldn't have done for any of us."

Quiet Jelena nodded, "Think of it as another chance, Taima. A chance to be what you could not have been in the outside world."

I couldn't argue that, but a word she had used burrowed its way into my mind, insisting that it was important…I shoved the thoughts out of my head, and looked pleadingly around the semicircle of werewolves, "The pack won't agree to this."

"Want to bet?" Boromor asked, "I could use the gold."

"The pack doesn't need to agree," Adian pointed out, "It's the Council that decides ranks such as this one."

I looked around the semicircle again, noting the stubborn set of their eyes, and then brightened, "But the pack leader can overrule them…" I trailed off, remembering that it was Adian Thunder who brought this to the Council's attention. Smiles lit their faces as I swore through my teeth, turning to Adian, "You, _pack-leader_, are _evil_. Trapping me into it like this…but fine. You have your Knight Protector."

Adian clapped me once more on my good shoulder, "So glad you saw it our way. Get some rest, Knight Protector. Today's going to be another long day in our city of werewolves."

One by one, the Council drifted off, leaving me alone. Adian was the last to go, but as I watched him make his way over towards the bedrolls, a thought like a thunderstorm crashed over me. I leapt to my feet and ran after him, calling his name until he turned, one eyebrow arched. I blurted out as I drew closer, "I have the name for our town." As his other eyebrow raise, I took a deep breath and said simply, "Second Chance. Because that's what it is for all of us. A second chance at life."

Adian's eyes widened, the words forming on his mouth as he rolled the two words over his tongue. He frowned thoughtfully, "Second Chance implies that there was a First Chance, town before this one. Shouldn't we just call it Chance?"

I snorted, "Of course there was a first chance. We all got one chance at life, then we were savaged by werewolves. We had to flee, had to sacrifice what we loved for survival. But now, we have another chance at town-life, another chance to live around people. A second chance to have what we could not, a second chance to love, to marry, to _live_. A second chance at everything. It was all I ever wanted during those three years that I was exiled, and I'm sure the majority of the population feels the same, even the elders."

Adian nodded, "With that, I can sympathize. Second Chance…I like it. I'll talk to the pack later today, but I think you're right; I think they'll agree with you on this."


	10. Chapter 10

Later that day, when Adian announced the name of the town to the pack, I wished that I could have betted on their reaction; _I_ could have used the gold. They _loved_ it, from the reasoning behind it to the actual name. There were a few that thought we should translate it into one of the native languages, to make it 'fit in,' but Boromor just shrugged and asked, "Why? This is our place, not the natives'. I saw we call it whatever we want." That shut up the last few grumblers.

Over the next two weeks, we finished building the main bunkhouse – the long building set against the back mountain – the headquarters, the tavern, the four watch-posts, the walls, and finished the inside of the infirmary. Now that the main buildings were finished, most werewolves turned their attention to private shops, helping out friends and relatives with pet projects.

I was busy working out a schedule for the rotation of the guards and patrols, then reading the reports that they brought back. I was careful to give everyone an equal slot of time on either the watch-posts or the patrols, with a few exceptions: the Council, Eponis White-Heart, and the fastest werewolves (who were _always_ the ones to do the sweeps to the far south, near the fort.)

Each night, we would gather just outside the main gate for our change, then scatter all over the island, searching out our own special territories. Two or three would always stay close to our abandoned city as guards, but even so, I was uneasy; to anyone who knew what we were and knew our habits, it would be too easy to mount an attack against the empty city and take it over.

When I brought it up to Calo, the most military-minded on the Council, he just shrugged, "Who would want to attack us?" To my pointed glare, he admitted, "Reiklings and Skaal and maybe some of the colonists. Alright, I'll bring it up to the Council."

"I don't want much," I confessed, "just for two or three werewolves to stand actual guard, and not just to stick close."

From then on, two werewolves stayed inside the town during the night, and we would herd Reiklings to them to sate the bloodlust. Like most things, guard- and herding- duty was subject to rotation, so that no one was _always_ forced to stand guard in one of the watchtowers or atop the wall.

As the months slipped by, the town came closer and closer to completion, shops going up in neat rows. One by one, werewolves went to their respective homes on the island and lugged back their belongings, contributing anything of value to the shops. As one of the 'leaders,' I got my own room in the common bunkhouse on the first floor, close to the door. Adian slept in the headquarters, and always would, I suspected, and the Council members each had a room on the lower level.

Beyond that, the open room of the bunkhouse was filled to bursting with two and three tier bunks, all made of fresh-scented pine. By then, hierarchy had been worked out by way of small scuffles, but everyone found a bed that would suit them without too much conflict.

The first snow of winter – the first snow that did not melt come noon and the first deep killing frost – came on the last day of Hearthfire, the ninth month of the year, typical for Solstheim. We rejoiced that we were safe from the icy wind, snug and warm, with our species-kin all around.

As winter settled in, we applied ourselves to finishing the details of the completed buildings, leaving major construction for the spring. Pots were bought or loaned from the various shop keepers, and our alchemist handed over a few pretty and hardy flowers to decorate the main eating area of the tavern, the headquarters, and the infirmary.

Those skilled in carvings added elaborate details and scrollwork into anything they could get their hands on, teaching those who wished to learn the craft. At night, hunts were organized, ten or twelve werewolves strong, who were charged with seeking out prey for the next day; the snows were a blessing and a curse. They smothered all scents but that of the prey, but they also forced all but the strongest deep below ground for the winter, making the hunt dangerous. But with all the hunters of Solstheim gathered in one place, not even the elderly went hungry.

Then, _finally_, it was the longest night of the year, the most sacred holiday for werewolves. The Night the Hunter, of our greatest – and, come to think of it – _only_ hero, Ondjage.

I impatiently finished reading the last report that night, taking less care than usual. Not that we needed to worry; even the rogues and Hircine's Hounds waited all year for the Night of the Hunter. As long as they were allowed to join us in the celebration, they were more than happy to behave themselves all week.

Stretching, I left the room assigned to me in the headquarters, slinging a new cloak over my shoulder; a gift from Eponis White-Heart, who had spent the first week of winter embroidering the edges of the fleecy black cloak with tasteful silver designs. I felt a slow shiver race down my spine as I walked out of the gates of Second Chance, a mage-guard closing them behind me, using magicka to bar the entrance. No one would be left out tonight.

In the open clearing in front of the gates, all of the pack had gathered, heads turned towards were Svetlana stood on a chunk of ice, a blood-red cloak around her shoulders. In years past, this ritual was done in the Gathering Place, but as we needed to bar the gates at night…it just wasn't practical. I stood on the fringes of the crowd, and a smile crossed my face as Svetlana launched into the tale, told each year on this night, familiar to all.

"There is a tale told among the Nords of Solstheim of a huge silver wolf called Ondjage, who was as big as an ox, who no one could slay. In this, they are true. But what they do not know is that Ondjage was no common wolf, but a werewolf with a rare silver pelt and black teeth. He was the first to throw off the bonds of madness, the first to know how to sate the bloodlust. Each night, he killed, and soon taught the other werewolves of the island to do the same. For that, Lord Hircine granted him a boon; he could change his shape whenever he pleased, Nord to wolf and back again.

"But those of the clan Thirsk feared him, feared his size and his strength and his savage cunning. Though they did not know his true species, they sought to kill him, if only for his valuable pelt. But Ondjage was a mighty battler, and anyone who faced him died. And so the chief of the Nords, Hrothmund, their greatest warrior, marched off to face the fell werewolf in battle, confident that he would come out the victor. Ondjage left him a trail through the wilderness, bringing him to grounds holy to Hircine, an ice formation that looked like a howling wolf. There they faced off, just as the last rays of the sun vanished from the sky.

"Both were strong, capable warriors, and both fought with every ounce of strength they possessed. All through the night they fought, both drawing blood and taking wounds. But just as the sun rose, Hrothmund fell. And Ondjage howled his victory to the rising sun.

"Those from Hrothmund's clan came then, and buried their slain leader in a crypt in the ice formation, then called Hrothmund's Bane by werewolves and men. Then they marched off to hunt the silver wolf that had killed their chief. They _claim_ that they killed Ondjage, and feasted on his flesh, and in but one part they are right; they _did_ kill the great silver. But Hircine watches over those he has claimed, and at the moment of death, whisked Ondjage into the stars, replacing his body with that of a common Snow Wolf. And so Ondjage was honored by the Lord of the Hunt, and became the immortal leader of the Pack of the Moon, the pack that all werewolves join when they die, the leader of the Hunt Across the Stars.

"Tonight is the anniversary of Ondjage's victory against Hrothmund, and we will celebrate with the Pack of the Moon. Sing, werewolves, the Song of Triumph!"

At that moment, the change overtook us all, and we shed our clothes garment by garment, first growing fur to keep us warm. I was the first to throw back my head and howl, many voices joining mine as we clustered close together, lifting up our voices in rich cords. Outsiders would never guess that werewolves took the time to _compose_ our howls into songs as they would know them, and for the most part, we didn't. But for our celebrations, we almost felt that we _had_ to. The good news was that once a person became a werewolf, no matter how bad a singer they had been before, they became much better, instinctively knowing how to form tight harmonies.

Such harmonies were present in our song now, our heads thrown back, eyes on the moons and the brilliant stars. Then, as one, we fell to all fours and bounded northward, one large pack of werewolves, a boiling mass of flesh as we continued to sing. I worked my way along the edges of the pack, stride extending, until I was up with the fastest runners. I glanced to my left, and barked a greeting to Flyer during a break in the song. He glanced over at me, and grinned, leaping into the air like a dolphin; after he killed the necromancer, Flyer enjoyed a boost in prestige within the pack. I didn't try to mimic him, but laughed, and took up the main melody of the song, Flyer's strong bass countering me.

As we neared Hrothmund's Bane, we slowed to a trot, and I scanned the dips in the landscape; if tradition held…Yes, there were Hircine's Hounds coming from the north-west, a motley group of ten now, a quarter of their former strength, mostly the very old or the very young, led by the closest thing to a priest we werewolves had: Cleric, one eye claimed by a sword when he was still a young werewolf, the other cloudy with cataracts, pelt silvery with age. He claimed that Hircine had walked in his dreams when he first became a werewolf, and made him the leader of Hircine's Hounds, the devout. Whether it was true or not was a moot point; he had ruled his select group for many years, and made it clear that any werewolf who wished to learn more of the Ways of the Hunter was welcome to their hidden cavern.

Very few werewolves took him up on it; to 'learn more of the Ways of the Hunter' meant to devote your life to serving him as a Hound. Not fun. But it welcomed the very young werewolves, those who had been bitten as children. And, of course, the priests who managed to get themselves savaged.

Cleric took a few steps forward, a young werewolf to one side of him. He tilted his muzzle back and asked formally, "Do I catch the scent of Elder on the wind?"

Elder stepped forward, adding, the ritual familiar to them both, "You do. Is it Cleric that I see before me?"

"It is. Will you allow us, the Hounds of Hircine, his faithful followers, to join your celebration of the Night of the Hunter?"

"Come, and be welcomed."

Despite his years, Cleric's tail wagged, and he allowed Thunder and the Council to pass him at a trot, their pace picking up as they continued the celebration. Then he was bounding along with the fastest, close to myself and Flyer, the young werewolf still at his side, acting as his eyes.

We raced north, then turned east as we hit the shore, snapping and chasing Horkers for the love of it. We turned inland after a few miles, and the call went up, "To the Skaal village!" I felt my heart leap into my throat; this was the dangerous part of the night; those in Thirsk would shudder when they heard our song, but would bar themselves inside their great hall and drink mead to keep their spirits up; they knew so long as we were not attacked this night, we wouldn't seek out trouble.

The Skaal, however, had no walls to protect them, and had a deep-running hatred of werewolves and an instinctive desire to kill us all. But if we ran fast and did not stray too far from the river, did not run through the middle of their village, then we would be safe enough. It had worked in previous years.

Our paws beat the ground in time to our howling song, the pack stretching out like a flowing ribbon of fur and flesh near the silvery blue waters of the river. I caught a glimpse of the bright-painted houses between the hills, and of two Nords fleeing back towards the village as we passed…it looked as though we had caught two lovers… er…_unawares._ I laughed, and picked up the pace, running next to Flyer. He glanced over, trying to see what I thought was amusing, and then laughed as well, leaping up into the air. "What are you, a fish?" I quipped.

He just laughed, and vaulted over a log, clearing it by several feet, kicking his back legs out in a flourish as he landed. "Nay," he barked back to me, "not a fish. A bird!"

And thus, singing and laughing, celebrating that victory long ago, we ran along the river, then turned east at the fort, following the shoreline as it curved north once more.

By the time we reached the river that flowed inland, that would lead us home, our throats were aching, but we were still triumphant. The ten Hounds left us then to continue north towards their sacred caves; the exact location was a guarded secret, trusted to very few outside the Hound's order.

And we headed home, into _our_ city, the city of werewolves. Second Chance.

* * *

A/N: Well, I must say, it's been fun to write this. But it's time to lay it to rest; I've never been in the habit of just leaving a story unfinished. I do have a number of plot lines that continue the adventures of the werewolves of Second Chance, and I might even get around to posting them…not anytime soon, however. And so, until further notice, the story is complete. 


End file.
